After the Storm
by TheViewFromTheAfternoon
Summary: You can't outrun your past, no matter how hard you try.
1. Chapter 1

**One**

1975

The joint's a dive, just me and a couple of the other regular drunks propping up the bar, Johnny Cash blaring out of the jukebox that no one but the barman ever puts any change into. But the upside of being in a place like this is no one gives a shit about trying to make any small talk, not when we're all here trying to drown ourselves in the bottom of a bottle.

The door creaks open, the icy November breeze biting through the thin cotton of my shirt until it bangs shut again. I keep my head down, elbows resting against the dark wood as I stub out my cigarette in the tin ashtray.

'You think you've had enough for tonight, Tim?' Curly asks as he sinks down on to the bar stool next to me, then stretches out a hand and picks up the bottle of Jack from in front of me, tilts it a little as he attempts to assess exactly how much booze I've sunk so far tonight.

I snatch it back and top up my glass, sending half of it sloshing across the surface of the bar as my hand shakes. 'Nope.'

'You getting hammered every damn night won't make it better.'

I sip at my drink, not turning to look at him, watching his distorted reflection in the Lone Star mirror hanging on the wall behind the bar. 'Can't make it any worse, either.'

'When did you last eat?'

I shrug. When did I last eat? Not today, that's for sure. My stomach growls a little. Not yesterday either. Tuesday maybe? Hard to say when all the days roll into one fucking giant nightmare. 'I ain't hungry.'

'Well what about sleep?' Curly looks me up and down, frowning at my wrinkled shirt and filthy jeans. 'You look like shit.'

I let out a low laugh. How can I sleep when I can't shut it out? Not unless I'm falling-down, passing out blind-drunk anyway, and I'm nowhere near that far gone tonight. Not yet. 'I'm fine, Curly. Don't need you checking up on me. So why don't you just go home?'

My brother sighs, bites at his bottom lip. 'The kids have been asking after you, don't understand why you're not there. Tony's constantly asking when you'll be coming back, Gracie's missing you something fierce too.'

'They're better off with you and Claire.'

'Come on, Tim. I know you're hurting like all hell, but so are they. They've just lost their mom for Christ's sake. You need to suck it up, pull yourself together and be there for them.'

'If it's too much bother for you to look after them any more then take them to Ange. Or ask Sylv, she'll do it.'

'Christ, it ain't that. You know we love them, that they can stay with us as long as you need. But don't you think it's hard enough for them as it is, without you disappearing on them too? You remember how shit it was for us, after dad? Ma being so wrapped up in herself? So don't do that to them, they deserve better than that. They need some stability 'cause right now it's like their whole world has fallen apart.'

'Their whole world? What about mine?' I spit the words at him like a petulant child as I swallow down the hard lump growing in my throat and ignore the pricking in my eyes as hot tears spill uninvited and unwelcome onto my cheeks. 'How am I meant to do this without her?'

Curly rests a hand on my shoulder but I shrug him away. I don't need his comfort. Don't fucking deserve it, either.

'Shit, Tim. I know it's been horrendous. That you're fucking devastated. Hell, we all are. And I know it ain't fair and you shouldn't have to be dealing with this. But it's not their fault either. They need their father.'

I turn the glass in my hands, knock back the contents in one, my throat burning as the alcohol hits, a half-second of respite from the pain that's searing into every other fibre of my being. Reaching for the bottle again, I lose my balance, stumbling sideways off the stool and sending my glass shattering into a thousand tiny glittering shards against the black and white chequerboard floor tiles.

'Fuck's sake!' I sniff, dragging a hand across my face, smearing tears and snot over my skin.

The guy sat further along the bar shakes his head as his mouth twists into a smirk. 'Fucking lightweight,' he mutters just loud enough for me to hear.

Lunging towards him, I grab at the front of his shirt, twisting the plaid as I shove him backwards. 'The hell you looking at, asshole?'

He straightens up, jutting his chin towards me as he laughs in my face.

My left hand balls into a fist at my side, but before I can swing at him Curly grabs my arm, dragging me away, his fingers digging into my flesh. 'Come on, buddy, let's get you home.' Digging in his jeans pocket with his other hand, my brother drops a crumpled twenty down on the bar before steering me away and out of the door.

'Come on, get in.' Curly jerks his head towards the inside of his truck as he pulls the passenger door open. 'Please, Tim. Let's get you sobered up then in morning you can see the kids, spend some time with them.'

'No.' I step back, slumping down on the concrete of the sidewalk. 'How can I go back and pretend that everything's going to be alright? They're better off without me. You all are. If it wasn't for me they'd still have their mom.'

'Christ, Tim, it was an accident.' Curly holds out his hand to me, pulls me back to my feet. 'Cops said so.'

'No, Curly. What happened was no accident. We both know it should've been me.'

* * *

Thanks for reading :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Two**

_Seven weeks before..._

'Braithwaite, Evans, Morris!'

The guys leave the pallets they've been loading up with lumber and shuffle towards Gary the foreman, muttering and grumbling as he hands each of them an envelope.

'Sorry, guys, but today's your last shift. You're paid up to the end of the week. He ticks them off his list, starts shouting out more names. 'Norman, Peterson, Shep—'

Scowling and red faced, Morris cusses him out and kicks at a metal trash can, sending it clattering across the concrete floor before storming out. But even his racket doesn't stop me hearing that my own name has been called out too. That I'm yet another loser on the long list of lay-offs that started a month ago as the business loses more and more customers every damn week.

'Hey, Shepard,' Braithwaite calls as I trudge across the gravel parking lot towards my car. 'Me and Norm are heading down to Flannigan's, drown our sorrows. You coming?'

I shake my head, making my excuses as I turn the key in the ignition, even though I could do with a fucking beer about now, that's for damn sure. But it'll be better if I go straight home and tell Leigh no matter how much I don't want to. Get it over with, quick, like ripping off a band aid.

But despite my good intentions, I still drive the long way back, sticking religiously to the speed limit in an attempt to delay the inevitable just a little bit longer, sitting in the car outside home for what feels like an eternity before I suck it up and go inside.

Entering the house, I loiter on the threshold to the lounge for a second or two. Watching. Anthony's building up wooden blocks into a tower. Leigh's kneeling beside him, Grace giggling as she stretches out a hand and sends the brightly coloured cubes tumbling across the floorboards towards me.

'Daddy!' Anthony shouts as he looks up, spots me standing here. He scrabbles up from the floor and launches himself across the room towards me, Grace toddling in his wake, her face twisted in concentration as she tries to keep up with his pace.

'Hey, kiddo.' I grin, ruffling his hair. Slipping the crumpled envelope I'm clutching into my shirt pocket, I scoop my daughter up into my arms, kissing the top of her head.

'Tim?' Leigh twists towards me. 'You're home early. Is everything okay?'

'Sure.' I force a smile as she gets to her feet. The sooner I do this, the better. 'You got a minute?'

'Of course.' Her brow creases. 'I need to talk to you about something, anyway.'

Tony's tugging at my arm, urging me towards the yard. 'Daddy, come and see. I can throw my football as far away as—'

'In a minute, buddy.' I set Grace down beside him. 'You take your sister and I'll be right behind you.'

Tony takes her hand and hurries down the hall, chattering non-stop at her.

'So what's up?' Leigh asks as they disappear out the door onto the small square of patchy sun-scorched grass, her voice jolting me back to reality. 'What did you want to tell me?'

I try to form the sentence, figure out the words, but I'm too damn much of a coward, so instead I chicken out. 'No, you first.'

'Right.' Leigh pushes her hair back from her colourless face, her smile weak. But then her head drops, and we stand awkwardly, neither of us speaking.

'Honey? You okay?' I ask, when the silence hanging over us becomes more unbearable than hearing whatever the hell it is she's struggling to say to me. 'You still feeling under the weather?'

'Not really.' She still won't look me in the eye though.

'Leigh? Come on, if there's something the matter, then—'

'I'm pregnant,' she whispers, her words hitting me like a sucker punch, knocking the air from my lungs.

'What?'

'Yeah. Turns out I didn't pick up anything off the kids, after all. Morning sickness. Again.'

'Shit.' The room feels small, airless, like the walls are closing in on me. I can't breathe. 'And you're sure?'

'Yeah. What with the kids being sick last month and all, I just figured I must've got what they'd both had. But then earlier this week, I stopped kidding myself and faced up to the idea that maybe its been going on too long for that. And, well, I...' Leigh leans into me, her head on my shoulder as she wraps her arms round my neck, her tears soaking into the cotton of my shirt as her body presses against mine, crushing that goddamn letter between us. 'I'd only just let myself start believing things might actually be getting a little easier, now Grace is actually sleeping through and Anthony's starting kindergarten. Maybe even finding myself a part time job in a year or so, instead of being stuck here while my brain turns slowly to mush. Only now we're going go be back to square one again, dealing with diapers and bottles and yet more sleepless nights.'

'Jesus, Leigh.'

Leigh sniffs, mumbling into my shoulder. 'I know, I'm sorry, it's not exactly what we planned.'

'Hey, don't you dare fucking apologise, or act like it's your fault.' I take a step back and rest my hands on her arms, just above the elbows and force a suggestive grin onto my face. 'Ain't like I didn't have something to do with it is it?'

Leigh rolls her eyes, shakes her head at me, but at least the corners of her mouth lift into a hint of smile. 'Still a hell of a shock though.'

'I know, but despite me moaning about Curly and Ange, growing up as one of three wasn't that bad, well not because of either of them anyway. And we said when Grace came along how it'd be good for the kids to grow up close, have each other. So yeah, its not exactly what we had planned, but we'll manage. We always do.'

I wipe away the tears staining her cheeks with the pad of my thumb.

'I guess. So what did you want to tell me?'

The kids' high-pitched squeals float in, reminding me they're waiting on me. I should just get on with it, show Leigh the paperwork, but how in hell can I tell her my own news now? _Hey, babe, guess what? Half my shift just got pink-slipped. And now we've got the prospect of having three kids under five to worry about? Well everything I just told you is bull. We're fucking screwed. Can't barely afford to clear our bills each month and support the two kids we have, so how the hell will we manage with three?_

Rubbing at the back of my neck, I glance out the door at my carefree, happy children, then back at my wife, the love of my life, the one person who's always stood by me, supported me. Believed in me, even when no one else would. So I can't fuck it up for them, for Leigh. I won't. I'll just have to damn well fix my mess and find myself some other work before I tell her there's even a problem.

'Tim?' Leigh goes to take my hand but I shift a few inches backwards, slipping out of her reach.

'That? Oh, it was nothing important, just I need to pop out later, see my brother is all.'

* * *

**A/N**: Thank you so much to everyone who's read, reviewed, followed or favourited my story :) Hope you enjoyed this update too...


	3. Chapter 3

**Three**

'You home, Curly?' I call, pushing open the front door of my one-time home and walking on in. I don't really want to waste my time being here, not when there's nothing he'll be able to do to help me out. But my brother's so damn unpredictable, forever phoning us, or showing up at our place on a whim to see the kids, that I can't risk not coming here first. Not when I've told Leigh that bullshit about me having to be here, anyway.

'Yeah, in here.' He appears in the hallway, a beer in each hand. 'You alright?'

'Fine. Was just passing, figured I'd stop and say hello.' I glance past him towards the kitchen. 'Claire home?' I ask, really hoping she's not.

'Nah, you just missed her. She left for the hospital about ten minutes ago, she's on the night shift again this month, told you that on Monday. You wanna beer?' he asks, already popping the cap on the second bottle and shoving it into my hand before I get a chance to answer.

'Cheers.'

I pace across the room and stare out the window, taking a swig of beer, cross back to the mantle and make like I'm interested in all the photos he's got out on display. Curly and his latest girl, Claire. Angela looking way more similar to Ma than she likes to admit but can't deny. Not when it's there for all to see in the fading black and white shot of our mother that Curly must have unearthed somewhere when we were clearing out her things—Ma from years ago, and god knows when it was taken but she's actually smiling too. Then next to that there's somewhere close to half a dozen snaps of my kids, alongside one final one of me and Leigh, on our wedding day. I pick it up, study it a little more closely and try to remember what it was like to be that young, that happy.

'So what're you really doing here?' Curly asks, sinking down onto the threadbare couch and reaching for his cigarettes.

'What? So I need a reason to come over here now?' I set the picture frame face down on the mantle.

'Course not. But I only saw you two nights ago. And you ain't hardly been back here, not since Ma...'

His words trail off, my soft-hearted brother still unable to bring himself to actually say out loud thats she's gone. He might have changed things up in here, made it look different on the surface with the odd new bit of furniture, pictures on the wall. But I still don't understand why he chose to take on the lease after she died. How he can stand to be here with all the memories that are always lurking, just beneath the surface. Not when the good ones were so few and far between anyway. No. Ange had the right idea, moving out soon as she turned eighteen.

'Fine.' I move towards the door. 'If I'm not welcome, then—'

'Don't be an idiot.' He chucks the carton of smokes at me. 'Come off it, Tim. There's clearly something on your mind, you wouldn't be here if there wasn't. So why don't you quit pacing around like a cat on hot bricks and sit the fuck down, fill me in on what's troubling you?'

I fiddle with the carton, taking my time to select a cigarette, then even longer to light the damn thing.

'And?'

I sit beside him, taking a drag on my cigarette and staring at the floor, still not speaking.

'Tim?' He nudges me in the ribs. 'You had a fight with Leigh?'

'No.' I exhale slowly, the smoke twisting and winding up towards the ceiling. 'It ain't that.'

'So what the hell is going on then?'

'You know of any work going that'll pay more than I'm making up the factory?'

'Not really. I mean, I can ask at work, only...' his voice trails off again as he picks at the label of his beer bottle, peeling the damp paper away from the brown glass.

'It's alright, Curly. I'm well aware that your boss ain't likely to hire someone with my record to work as a hospital orderly. Some people ain't ever gonna let me forget I did time in the state pen, no matter what I do.' A low laugh escapes my lips, as I attempt to make light of it and grin at him. 'Besides, don't exactly think I've exactly got the right personality or the patience for helping sick people, do you?'

'Why you looking, anyway?'

I shrug at him. 'Maybe I'm sick of humping heavy lumps of steel about and fancy a change.'

'Yeah, right,' he scoffs. 'How the hell am I supposed to help if you won't even tell me the truth?'

'Got fucking canned this afternoon,' I mutter, the words slipping out before I can stop them. I frown at the toe of my worn work boots, go to take another sip of my beer, only the bottle's empty already. 'And before you assume I fucked up, it's not just me. There's been loads of lay offs.'

'Shit, buddy. That sucks.'

'Get's worse, too.' My empty beer bottle clinks against the glass top of the coffee table. 'Me and Leigh. We're having another kid.'

'Jesus, Tim. You ever heard of birth control?' Curly grins at me. 'Seriously though, that's great news. You ain't really unhappy about that are you?'

'Nah, course not. Only the timing could've been better. Just means I need to find something else real quick, before Leigh gets a chance to worry about any of this shit. So you need to keep your big mouth shut, alright?'

'You mean to say you didn't tell her? Can't believe you're trying to keep something like that a secret from her. Thought you didn't operate like that, these days.'

'I ain't planning on leaving her in the dark forever. But if I can find something else before the end of the week then I can save her the upset. She's got enough going on without having to worry about whether we can make next month's rent or if there'll be enough spare cash to buy new winter shoes for the kids.'

'If you're short then I can—'

'Don't need your damn charity, Curly.'

'It ain't charity, you're family. You know damn well you'd do the same for me if it was the other way round, so don't go getting all high and mighty about it.' Curly lifts the bottle to his lips, takes another slug of beer. 'So what are you planning on doing?'

'Find something else, I guess. Can't be that damn hard, can it?'

'Still think you're making a mistake, Tim. Not telling her.'

'And when I want marriage advice from you, I'll ask for it.' I make a show of checking my watch, and ease myself up off the lumpy couch. 'Anyway, if you ain't got anything useful to day, then I better get moving.'

'Tim, wait!' Curly calls, trailing behind me down the hall and stopping me on the front step. ' You could try Curtis. Heard from his brother that he just got awarded some new contract. Pony reckons it's some real big deal.'

* * *

Darry Curtis pulls open the door before I even get a chance to knock.

'Tim. Been a while.' He leans a shoulder against the door frame, folds his arms like he's fighting the urge to chase me off his land while I stand, awkward and uncomfortable, on his pristine porch.

The way he's looking at me, I already know this is a mistake. That I'll get the same damn answer from him as I already got from Danny Simmonds down his auto-repair place, and Rick from the lumber yard. Same as I got from every other of the dozen or so places I've been to this past two days.

But Leigh and the kids, they need me, and I'm fast running out of ideas for fixing this quick. Can't bear a third day of lying to her, of me getting up and leaving the house at seven and pretending like I'm still off to work, like I'm not some loser who can't provide for his family. So I swallow down my pride and ask Darrel for his help. 'Heard you might have some work going. You know I worked construction before. So...' I shrug at him, hoping I don't sound too damn desperate.

He stares at me for a few seconds, hard to read behind those icy blue eyes, before he finally answers. ' Sorry, Tim. You know I'd help you if I could, but I just don't have anything. Maybe in another month, once we get started on the new site. But right now I've barely got enough work on for the guys already on payroll.'

Guess I've just got one more option left to try, then.

* * *

Its barely past six, but the room crammed. The usual Friday night crowd looking to blow their pay packets. I push my way between them to reach the bar. But despite the sea of bodies and the air being heavy with smoke I spot him instantly. He's sat in his favourite booth out back, a joint in one hand, and his other arm slung across the shoulder of some dark-eyed, hollow-cheeked girl who barely looks legal.

If asking Darry Curtis for help was a bad idea, then coming all the way out here to Brumly has to be the king of terrible decisions. I should go home, man up and tell Leigh the damn truth. Have her tell me that things ain't anywhere near as bad as we both know it is and that we'll find a way to fix it, together.

Only before I can turn tail and disappear back out the door he looks up and locks eyes with me for a second, a grin creeping across his face.

Pulling the last ten from my pocket, I push it towards the barman, point at the bottle of Jack.

Lewis raises an eyebrow as I approach his table and set down the glasses in front of him.

'Well, well. So tell me, to what do I owe this pleasure?'

'Figured it was about time.' I settle myself down in the seat opposite him, pour two inches into each glass and wait, silently praying that the investment is worth it and I haven't just wasted the last of my spare cash for nothing.

He turns the glass in his hand, knocks back the contents in one, then refills it to the brim. 'Time for what?'

'Time you and me got back into business. If your offer still stands?'

* * *

A/N: Thank you for reading :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Four**

The deal with Brumly hasn't changed all that much. Chris Lewis is running the same old, same old; except on an even bigger scale since I last had dealings with him. He always was a step up from the shit me and my gang used to, more serious about it all. But these days his operation is off the scale. He's got kids dealing on every other street corner out here in Brumly. Then alongside that he's selling knocked-off liquor and cigarettes through that backstreet bar he practically lives in since he took it over. Guns too, if the whispers I've been hearing this last year or so are true. Rumour is he buys most his stuff from some contact out of town, based over near Oklahoma City. And him buying the bar gives him a legitimate front to run all the dirty money through.

And then there's my role. Just another cog in Lewis's underground empire.

I pick my way through the long grass that's overhanging the cracked paving slabs and rap my knuckles against the door.

A dog's bark echoes through from the back yard and a baby starts bawling. Two seconds later a muffled voice yells at one or the other of them to 'shut the fuck up!', but no one comes to the door.

I shift my weight sideways towards the window and try to peer inside, but the glass is filthy and the grubby drapes are still drawn even though it's two in the afternoon. Movement in the corner of my eye grabs my attention, but it's the woman from next door watching me from her own front step, darting back inside and slamming the door tight shut when she realises she's been made. Suppose I should be thankful Lewis keeps most of his money lending confined to this side of town and I'm not skulking around chasing up my own neighbours this way.

Raising my hand, I hammer on the wood once more with no luck. And I'm on the point of considering putting my shoulder against it, when the door finally cracks open an inch or two.

Automatically, I stick the toe of my boot in the gap and rest an arm on the door frame, because people aren't ever so keen to open the door to me a second time once they realise why I'm calling on them.

'What d'you want?' The woman holds the grizzling baby against her bony hip, her stick thin arms looking like they might snap under the weight.

'Think you know the answer to that already, don't you? Deal is, you pay up every Tuesday and then I go away, leave you in peace for a whole 'nother week.'

'No. I usually pay Dave.' She frowns, her mouth a narrow line.

I glare at her, not sure what the hell I'll do if she doesn't pay up. Pushing guys around, getting up in their face and throwing a few punches around is one thing. Hell, it's almost interesting when things get a little bit messy, because at least it breaks up the boredom. But the prospect of having to slap some girl around is a whole other proposition. Though maybe that's what she's counting on, the fact that despite appearances I might still have some kind of moral compass about shit like that. 'Yeah, well there's been a change of plan, so give me the damn cash and there won't be no shouting, no fighting, and best of all, no one gets hurt.'

She pushes a hand through her greasy hair, and juts her chin towards me, and sneers, 'Why? What you gonna do to me if I don't?'

I shove the door open a little wider, step across the threshold, invading her space so there's barely more than a couple inches between us and try not to dwell on what I'd do to any asshole who ever treated Leigh the way I'm carrying on. The air in here's fusty with damp and a quick glance past the broad confirms that I won't find anything much of any value in this house. But there'll be something I can threaten to take, or smash up if she doesn't pay. Because I might not have many standards left but there's no way am I ever sinking low enough to hit some woman. But on the other hand I guess there's no harm in making her think I might, if it settles this now.

'Look, Sweetheart.' I grab her by the elbow, my fingertips digging into her flesh. 'Just find some cash, yeah? Because if you don't pay me, then next time they'll send someone who won't be anywhere near so friendly and understanding as I am.'

'Yeah, yeah, okay.' She sniffs, shakes my hand off of her and pulls a twenty from the pocket of her faded jeans. 'It's all I've got.'

'There, that wasn't so hard was it? See you the same time next week.' Grinning, I shove the money into my own back pocket and saunter back towards my car.

* * *

Chris Lewis is sat at his usual table, deep in conversation with a couple of guys I haven't seen round here before. Their voices are low, and the only words I catch are 'delivery' and 'schedule'. Maybe 'payment'. But it's clear from their expressions that this must be something important, and their accents don't sound local, so I ain't keen to overstep and piss Chris off by blundering headlong into business that ain't none of my concern. So instead I settle at the bar, order myself a drink and wait. Eventually, after about another twenty minutes, two more rounds of shots and a series of handshakes, they leave.

Back so soon?' Chris claps me on the shoulder as they disappear out the door. 'You run into a problem? Need some help with someone? Told you, you need to be tough, not let their little sob stories about their brats going hungry get under your skin—'

'Nah, it was. They all paid up.' I fish the wad of notes out of my back pocket and hand it over, along with the notebook detailing all the payments against the outstanding debts buried under the crippling interest Lewis charges them.

He flips through the pages, then counts the notes, separating them into two piles on the bar.

'I'm impressed, Shepard. Getting all this lot to cough up in two days.' He gives me the book back. 'You got a head for figures?'

'Yeah, I guess.' Don't tell him that way back in junior year of high school I was top of the class in math, or that I probably would have been when I graduated—if I'd bothered to show up on a regular basis, that is.

'Cool. Well you take on managing this lot, and you get thirty per cent of whatever you collect.' He slides one of the piles of cash towards me. 'Starting with this.'

'Seriously?' I ask, trying to sound casual, like he hasn't just handed me well over half of my old weekly wage for less than two days' work.

'Yeah. I like to reward a job well done, keep my guys loyal.' He knocks back the remaining contents of his glass. 'It ain't gonna be a problem is it? You being one of the guys instead of giving out the orders?'

'Course not. Told you the other day, I'm happy doing whatever you need me to do to earn some cash for my family. I'm not interested in being the boss these days, Chris. Got too much to lose.'

He studies me for a few seconds, then laughs, gestures for the barman to pour us a couple of whiskies. 'Glad to hear it, Tim. Just keep doing what you're doing and I reckon you'll do fine.'

* * *

The house is quiet when I eventually get home. I pause outside the kid's room, and peep in at them through the crack in the door. Grace is curled up tight, her hand dangling through the bars of the cot, while Tony's sprawled on top of the covers with that hideous-looking blue stuffed bear Curly won at the summer carnival gripped tight under his arm. Both of them look so peaceful, contented. Not like that other kid, earlier. Push down the guilt that maybe he's crying himself to sleep hungry because of me, 'cause it ain't my fault his mother thinks borrowing money off of a shark like Lewis is a hot idea.

'Tim?' Leigh calls from our bedroom. 'Is that you?'

Turning, I catch sight of her through the open door, perched on the end of our bed as she brushes her hair. My breath catches for a second, and I stride across the hall to her.

'Hi, babe.' I rest a hand on her hip and pull her in to a kiss. The heat of her body, still warm from the shower, radiates into me. But she twists her head so my lips miss hers and graze against her cheek instead. 'Sorry. I got held up with a few of the guys. You know how it is.'

'Yeah, sure,' she mutters with a shrug.

The baby-blue satin robe clings to her still-damp skin, accentuating the soft swell of her breasts. Despite the obvious warning signs, my hands wander beneath the silky fabric as the success of my day working for Chris Lewis—combined with the alcohol I've sunk—makes me over-confident, and I push my luck a little further.

'Spent the whole damn day wishing I was here, with you,' I whisper into her hair, breathing in the sweet scent of coconut shampoo. 'Kids are sound asleep, so maybe we could—'

'Seriously, Tim?' Leigh grabs my wrists, lifting my hands away from her and snapping me back to reality with a jolt. 'You come rolling in here, three sheets to the wind, and expect me to be okay with that?'

'Look, I'm sorry. But work ran late, then—'

'No, Tim,' she interrupts again. 'Enough with all your bullshit and lies. I know you haven't been at the factory this past week. So why don't you start over, explain why in hell you didn't tell me?'

* * *

A/N: Huge thanks to everyone who's been reading so far :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Five**

'So are you going to say something, or are you just going to stand there all night staring at me?' Leigh pulls the cord of her robe tighter, folds her arms across her chest.

'I...' I drag a hand through my hair. What the hell can I say to make this right? 'Who told you?'

'Does it matter?' Leigh hisses. 'I think what's more important is that _you_ didn't. But if you must know, it was Mary Braithwaite. You know, your work buddy—sorry, _former_ work buddy—Tommy's wife. Asking me if you'd found anything yet, because Tommy was all for them going back to Texas, trying find something on the oil fields on account of there being no decent paid jobs round here anymore. And I'm standing there in the middle the grocery store like some dumb idiot asking her what in hell she's talking about. I mean, Jesus, Tim, what on earth were you thinking?'

'I was thinking you didn't need to be concerned about money on top of everything else we've got going on.'

'No. You just thought it'd be a good idea to make me a laughing stock instead. I mean, I can only imagine the bitchy gossip she was spreading soon as my back was turned, _poor Leigh Shepard, she didn't even know he'd got fired...wonder what else her husband keeps a secret from her_. You're unbelievable, sometimes.' She stalks past me out of our bedroom and into the kitchen, leaving me to trail after her. But she won't look at me, as she turns away and busies herself with filling a glass with water.

I stretch out a hand, about to touch her shoulder, to pull her into a hug and tell her how damn sorry I truly am. But then a rolling wave of doubt drags me under, because what if she pushes me away again? My arm drops, heavy as lead, and I drag out a chair from the table and slump down, rest my head in my hands until finally she sets down her glass and sits opposite me.

'Jesus, Leigh, I'm sorry, alright? I fucked up big time and you've every right to be angry. Only you have to believe me, it wasn't deliberate. I was about to tell you the other night, but then you were already in such a state, that I couldn't dump my shit on you too.'

I reach across the table for her hand but she snatches it away, leans as far back in the chair as she possibly can.

'What? So now you're saying it's my own damn fault you lied to me?'

'No. Stop twisting my words. You know that's not what I meant.' I pinch at the bridge of my nose, wishing the pounding behind my eyes would stop. 'You were already freaking out about how we were gonna manage. So I figured if I let it lie for a couple days and got my ass in gear to line up some new work, then it'd save you having to worry.'

'And have you? Found something new?'

'Yeah.'

'Whereabouts?'

'Over Brumly way.'

'Doing what?'

I shrug at her, then pull the cash Chris gave me only a couple of hours ago from my pocket, toss it on the table between us. 'Pays well.'

'That's not what I asked, Tim,' Leigh says, her words slow, like she's trying not to lose it with me. 'I asked you what job it is you've managed to find so quick?'

I pick at the scab forming on the back of my left hand, tearing the wound open again, my eyes on the pooling blood staining my skin scarlet as it runs between my knuckles. 'I'm working for Chris.'

'Chris?' she asks, a frown creasing her forehead as the realisation of who exactly I mean hits home. 'As in Chris Lewis?'

'Yeah.'

'But you said when we got married that all that was in the past. You promised me. So what is it you're doing for him?'

'This and that. You know he's got legitimate business these days? That not all of it's off the books?'

'Right. So what side of the business is it you're working in?'

I press my fingertip to my split knuckle, but the blood won't stop, it just smears even further across the back of my hand.

'Look, babe. It won't be forever. But we need cash to tide us over, pay the bills until something more permanent comes along.'

From across the hall, Grace coughs, her breathing raspy, quickly followed by ragged sobbing.

'Yeah?' Leigh gets to her feet, the chair legs scraping across the tiled floor as she heads towards our baby, pausing momentarily in the doorway to throw one more question at me. 'And what happens when you get hauled in by the cops? You think they won't come down hard on you because of your record? How d'you want me to explain to the kids when you get locked up again, and they won't get to see you for months, years even? Then even when you do eventually come home you'll be a stranger to them.'

'Leigh, wait.'

'No, Tim. I need to settle her before she wakes up her brother. Just go to bed, and we'll talk about this again in the morning. I don't want to hear any more of your bullshit. Not tonight.'

* * *

I lie on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, tossing and turning as sleep eludes me. Rolling onto my side, I stretch a hand across the bed, but my fingers find nothing but cold, empty sheets in the space where Leigh should be.

Throwing off the covers, I pad down the hall. Through the low glow of the nightlight I spot Leigh, sat the rocking chair beside the cot. Grace snuffling into her shoulder as she sleeps against Leigh's chest.

'Hey,' I whisper, creeping closer, kissing Leigh's forehead and smoothing my palm over Grace's feather-soft hair. Crouching down, I kneel beside my wife, praying that this time she'll at least hear me out.

'You know I love you, right?' I slip my hand over hers, intertwining our fingers. 'And the kids. And I'm sorry, I know I screwed up big time by not telling you. So please, can we stop fighting?'

'Yeah, okay.' Leigh sighs. 'But I still don't like you being there, Tim, so promise me you'll only stay until you find something else? That you'll keep on looking and you won't let him drag you back in for good?'

I dip my head, avoiding eye contact as I say what she needs to hear. 'Yeah, I promise.'

'Well, alright then.' She squeezes my hand. 'And no more secrets?'

'No more secrets.' I stretch up to kiss her. 'You coming to bed? Now she's sleeping?'

Leigh nods as she rubs Grace's back, then leans over the cot, gently tucking the blanket around our daughter as she settles her down before following me back across the hall.

'So what is it you're doing for Chris?' Leigh asks, as she slides into bed beside me, slipping one arm across my chest, her breath warm on my skin. 'You never did tell me.'

'Bits and pieces. Helping out in the bar, mostly.' Despite the darkness, I automatically twist my head away to avoid her searching gaze, scared she'll see straight through my half-truths if I don't. 'You know, working the door, making sure there's no trouble, that kind of thing. Maybe some driving, collecting deliveries and crap like that. Nothing major, nothing illegal. And definitely nothing that'll get me in any trouble.'

* * *

_**A/N:** Thank you so much to everyone reading, and especially for the reviews, follows and favourites :) Hope you enjoyed this chapter too?_


	6. Chapter 6

**Six**

The last two drunks weave their way across the room, bouncing off chairs, tables and each other until they stumble out the door. I shut the door behind them.

'Finally.' June, the bar tender, rolls her eyes as she wipes down the counter top. 'Thought they were never gonna leave.'

Tell me about it. Well, I'm outta here, see you tomorrow.' I stub out my cigarette and drain the last of my beer from the glass. And I almost make it out the door. Almost.

'Hey, Shepard!' Chris calls me back. 'You gotta minute?'

'Sure.' I glance at my watch, stifling a yawn. So much for me getting home any time soon.

'Tomorrow.'

'What about it?'

'Change of plan. Simpson's incapacitated so I need you to go with Robinson.' Chris jerks his head towards the guy who's just vacated the seat opposite, his long term second in command, Dave Robinson.

'We got a long drive ahead. So make sure you fuel up that shit-heap motor of yours.' Dave smirks at me.

'Why? Where we headed?' Two weeks in, and this—whatever the hell it is—is the first major deviation from the routine I've somehow settled into. My days spent dropping in to collect money from the people on my ever-growing list. Then gravitating back to the bar, working the rest of the night there breaking up fights and throwing out troublemaking assholes.

'Not your concern, Shepard,' Robinson sneers, as he saunters towards the door. 'Just be here, eight a.m.—that's all you need to know.'

'Jesus, what the hell is his fucking problem?' I mutter to myself, obviously not quietly enough though, 'cause Chris catches what I'm saying. Cackles.

'Dave don't trust no one, Tim. Never has. Seems to think you're hanging around 'cause you've got designs on taking over or some shit like that.'

'Well then he's even more of an idiot than he looks. Now you gonna tell me what the hell is so important that you expect me to go running around being his dogsbody?'

'Sit down.' Chris points to the chair opposite him, his expression serious again. 'Theres something else I need you to do for me. It's why I'm sending you with him tomorrow. I need someone I can trust.'

* * *

'Morning.' Leigh's voice is silky soft, heavy with sleep. Her lips are like velvet against my neck, my chest.

'Hey there, beautiful.'

The corners of her mouth lift into a hint of a smile as her fingers run through the thick dark hair covering my chest. 'What time is it?'

I glance at the clock, groaning inwardly, half seven already. 'Time for me to get moving.'

'Already?' She props herself on one elbow, squints over my shoulder at the alarm clock, checking out the time for herself.

'Yeah, sorry.' I huff out a breath, half-heartedly throwing back the covers. 'Told you last night, remember? I have to get an early start today.'

'Pity.' Her words are barely more than a whisper as her hand drifts further south. 'The one time we finally get a little time to ourselves, before the kids wake up. But I guess if you gotta go...'

Leigh shrugs, shifting away from me, my body already aching for her touch, yearning for the warmth of her body nestled against mine.

Screw it. Go meet Robinson or stay here, with her? That ain't exactly a difficult decision to make.

I rest a hand on her hip and draw her back into my arms, before reaching up to tuck a wayward strand of hair behind her ear as I murmur, 'Reckon I still got a little time, work can wait...'

* * *

'So, you gonna tell me what we're doing all the fucking way out here, or not?' I demand as Robinson finally grunts out an order, gestures that I should pull in out front of the rundown roadhouse opposite, alongside a row of a half-dozen or so motorbikes. The first words he's spoken to me since we left Tulsa, other than asking me _who in hell do I think I am_ before calling me an _arrogant fucker _for daring to show up late, then barking at me to head outta town towards Oklahoma City.

'Simple. We're picking up a delivery. So all you need to do is stay out here while I take care of the business side, then once the deal is done you get to load up the gear. And what you don't do is try to get involved, and you definitely don't open that big mouth of yours and speak to anyone. You sit here, in the motor until I tell you otherwise. Understand?'

Not bothering to wait for any acknowledgement from me, Robinson pops the catch on the passenger door, slamming it behind him before striding across the gravel lot towards the shack-like building. Two heavy-set guys, arms inked with tattoos stand either side the door, and he pauses for a second, shakes hands with the one on the right, before the two of them disappear inside.

Leaning forwards, I fiddle with the car radio scrolling through a whole load of static and country shit, eventually snapping the dial to off when its obvious I ain't gonna find shit worth listening to out here.

I glance towards the building. No sign of Dave. How in hell is Chris expecting me to find out shit, when I'm stuck out here? So despite Robinson's instructions, I grab my shades back off the dash and open the car door, swing out my legs. The crunch of the stone chippings beneath my boots attracts the fat guys interest, so I make a show of stretching, then circle round, kicking at the tyres. I do a good enough job of making him suspicious though, 'cause he's moved away from his post, is heading right towards me.

'There a problem?'

'Nah.' I rub at the base of my spine. 'Just my back's seizing up sitting in there. And sweating like a pig.' I grin at him, slide the pack of cigarettes out of my jeans pocket, taking one for myself before offering them to him.

'Cheers.' He loiters beside my motor. Watching me out the side of his eye. 'You new?'

'Something like that.' They likely to be long?'

'Dunno.' He shrugs. Looks like he's got about as much idea what's going on as I have then. 'Hat depends. On whether your boss man is happy to meet Brannigan's terms, or if he's dumb enough to try to negotiate.'

He drones on and on, but I don't hear anything, my mind stuck on that one word. Brannigan.

Been years since I heard that name. Years I've spent doing whatever my PO told me, working shit jobs on the nine to five to make ends meet and all the while prove to him, to Leigh, to anyone else who gives a shit, that I'm actually worth something. That McAlester and everything that happened there was a blip, something to be shoved to the darkest corners of my mind and never ever thought about, let alone brought up in conversation. Something that up until two minutes ago I could pretty much pretend never happened—or not to me anyway. Maybe I'm overreacting, and it's one of those freaky coincidences. I mean surely to God there's got to be more than one person in the whole damn state with that name?

I go to take a drag on my cigarette and suck the smoke deep into my lungs, my hand trembling—just a little, but enough for me to notice, and let my arm drop backup my side. My mouth is dry, so I can barely speak. But I need to know, so I force out the words that are sticking in my throat. 'Brannigan? He the big cheese around here then?'

'Jesus, you really are wet behind the ears, aren't you? Yeah, this is Mitch Brannigan's operation. And seeing as you're new I'll give you one bit of advice, for free.' He tosses the cigarette butt down to the gravel, grinds it out beneath his heel. 'Don't go getting any ideas, Mitch ain't someone you ever want to get on the wrong side of.'

'Right. Cheers.' I force myself to move, slumping down behind the steering wheel, my fingertips massaging my temples. Stay in the car, keep my head down. No reason Brannigan'll ever even see me. No need for our paths to cross, not when I'm nothing but the lowest of the low, Robinson's goddamned gopher, only here to hump boxes into the trunk and then drive. And even if he does, what's to say he'll even remember who I am or what I did? After the best part of ten years?

The door swings open with a creak and Robinson's voice booms across the void between us. 'Hey, Shepard! Wake the fuck up and get your ass over here! Now!'

* * *

_**A/N: **Huge thanks to anyone who's still reading :)_

_If anyone's interested in the background, Tim's time in McAlester and his previous encounter with Mitch Brannigan are in of one of my other fics, Cars and Girls._


	7. Chapter 7

**Seven**

As the door swings shut behind me, I'm enveloped by the thick air, heavy with the aroma of weed and stale booze. I can barely see anything apart from shadows as I move further inside the dingy roadhouse and away from the bright sunlight. But I can hear them. Dave Robinson's braying laugh, some girl giggling. The third voice, lower, deeper that has to be Mitch Brannigan's. So I keep my shades on, dip my head like I'm not the first bit interested in what's going on and follow Robinson's instructions, heading straight across the bar towards the door marked private.

'Six boxes. These on the left.' Some guy in a dirty black shirt and oil-stained jeans gestures towards some crates piled up on the left, but my eyes stick on him, on the prison ink snaking up his arms and around his neck. ' You take 'em, put them in the trunk of your car, then you stay with it. Understand?'

Realising he's expecting a reaction, I grunt out a 'yes' and grab up the first two boxes. Heavier than they should be, but I figure the less times I have to walk through the bar, the less chance there is of Brannigan taking any interest in me or, worse still, recognising me. So I steady myself, hold them tight to my chest, and stride back towards my motor. And it's going alright, I'm two trips down and heading back in for the last two when I realise they've moved outta the booth so now Dave and Mitch are standing by the bar, shaking hands.

'You nearly done?' Robinson asks, checking his watch. 'We haven't got all day, Shepard.'

I stare at my boots, keep moving as I answer. 'Yeah. This is the last lot.'

'Shepard?' Brannigan steps out in front of me, forcing me to stop as he looms over me, looks me up and down. 'Do I know you? You seem a little familiar.'

I'm frozen to the spot, turned to stone. I open my mouth to speak, but no sound comes out. I don't have the first clue on how to play this, 'cause me telling the truth—_yeah, that's right, we were in McAlester the same time. Funny story, you all thought it was Bobby, but it was me who killed that guy, the one who worked for you? Remember?_—isn't exactly gonna help me none. But if I don't say that, what do I say? Flat out lie, tell him he's mistaken?

Only then I don't have to. The chance for Robinson to prove he's the big man, make his contempt for me obvious, is too good an opportunity for him to miss.

'Nah, he ain't been up here before, he's one of Chris's charity cases, good for carrying shit and keeping his mouth shut, and not a lot else.' Robinson laughs to himself.

Brannigan nods, shifts back a couple of inches to let me squeeze past. But as I make my way back out, clutching the final boxes in my arms, he continues to watch me, like if he stares at me long enough it'll all fall into place. His mouth is a narrow line as his eyes flickers across my face, land on the scars scoring my left cheek, faded with the passing years so they're less prominent now, but still unmissable. A flicker of recognition passes across his face as his lips twist into a smile.

For a half second, I'm sure it's over but he doesn't pull a blade or a heater, doesn't bark at his heavies to deal with me. So I push the door open with my back and make my final escape into the afternoon sun, bright light flooding in around me.

* * *

'Evening.' June smiles up at me, as she drags a damp cloth across the bar. 'Chris is out back, said for you to go straight on through if you showed up.'

'Cheers.' Its been three hours since I dropped Robinson off here, with his delivery. Three hours that I've spent making a half-assed attempt at collecting money, goading and pushing and acting like a dick in a futile attempt to provoke someone into throwing a punch at me just to stop me thinking, stop me turning the encounter with Brannigan over and over in my head and convince myself that it's all in my imagination. That he doesn't know or care who I am.

Chris is sat at the small table, surrounded by stacks of boxes of rum and whiskey, holding a wad of bank notes. He gives me the briefest of glances, then finishes passing the notes from one hand to the other as he counts them, then shoves them back into the small safe bolted to floor and wall behind him.

'Robinson gone?'

'Yeah, about half an hour ago. And?' he asks, grabbing two glasses and adding an inch or so of bourbon to each then slides one towards me, nods towards the chair to indicate he wants me to sit.

I shrug, gripping my glass hard as I take a sip, desperate for the warmth to seep into me, calm my frayed nerves. 'And nothing. Spent most the time hanging about outside the place, bored outta my brain.'

'What? So you didn't see nothing useful?' he stares into his glass, slowly swirling the liquid round and round.

'Not really. I mean, Robinson looked real friendly with them, like he was comfortable, sat there with his hands all over one of Brannigan's girls when I did finally get summonsed to go in there, but then that's what he's supposed to do ain't it? Make nice with your business partners so things go smooth and you get a good deal.' I swallow another mouthful of bourbon. 'Even if it means sucking up to an asshole like Mitch Brannigan. Should've damn well told me that's who you're in business with, Chris.'

Chris's eyes flick over my face and he sets his glass down. 'You had dealings with him before then? 'Cause I was under the impression you never did any business out that way, Tim.'

Shrugging, I reach for his pack of cigarettes, help myself to one, focus on keeping my hand steady as I light it. _So much noise, the shouting, jeering voices, jostling to get a better view of this latest fight...Walt slumped and lifeless, blood pooling on the concrete floor of the mess hall. The other guy, smirking. Like he's proud of what he's done...Bobby on my heels as I launch myself across the room at that murdering bastard. The crowd vanishing as, too late, the baton-wielding guards drag us back... So much fucking blood, on my clothes, my skin, my hands..._

'Shepard?' Chris barks, snapping me out of my nightmarish memory. 'What the hell is going on in that head of yours? What's your beef with Brannigan?'

The tangled fragments of those long-suppressed memories threaten to surface again, but I push them away, focus on the ticking of the clock behind him, the way the smoke from my cigarette winds up towards the ceiling. The only person outside of those who were there I've ever trusted enough to share that with is Leigh, so there's no goddamned way I'm telling Chris Lewis. No. I need to quit whilst I'm ahead and keep myself off of Brannigan's radar.

'Nothing. I didn't ever do any business with him, but I guess I've heard shit, over the years. Doesn't change the fact you should've have given me a heads up on exactly what I was walking into. But the real issue is Robinson. We haven't ever had much time for one another, and he's made it pretty obvious he doesn't trust me. So no way is he gonna slip up and let me be there if he is doing deals behind your back, is he?'

'So change his mind, make him believe he can rely on you.'

'Yeah, right. Look, Chris, put someone else on it and let me go back to what I'm good at. collecting money and breaking up fights.'

'No, it needs to be you, someone I can be certain he ain't buying off, that he can't manipulate.' Chris twists round, reaching back into the safe. 'If it's money—'

'No.'

'You sure? Do this and I'll make it worth your while.' Chris drops a thick pile on twenties on the table between us. A couple of hundred, at the least, more maybe. Money that'd clear our bills for this month with some left over for next month, maybe even leave enough spare that I could do something good for Leigh and the kids. 'So what do you say, Tim?'

* * *

**A/N: **_Thanks for__ reading. _


	8. Chapter 8

**Eight**

'Babe, you seen my car keys?'

'In here, on the table,' Leigh calls from the kitchen, as the phone squawks into life. 'Hello?' Leigh frowns as she balances the receiver between her ear and shoulder, while she tries to carry on spooning oatmeal into Grace's mouth, the spiral cord stretched tight behind her. 'Yeah?... Uh-huh...That's great news...Yeah, Tim's here, I'll pass you over to him, let you talk it through properly.'

I scowl at her, shaking my head. 'I don't have time. I'm gonna be late. Tell whoever it is I'll ring back later.'

But Leigh shakes her head as she holds out the phone to me, her expression the happiest it's been in a while. 'Please, Tim. It's Darrel. Darrel Curtis. Said something about a job coming up, that you could start next week, if you're still interested.'

* * *

The roadhouse is busier than usual. So as I attempt to locate Robinson, my view is half-obscured by desperate blokes who think afternoon drinking and cheap hook ups with the girls who Mitch Brannigan has working here are the way forward.

But I can't spot him, or Brannigan, anywhere in the bar. I check my watch. Five already, and we've still got the drive back to Tulsa. The crates to unload outta my trunk, then a check-in with Lewis, my opportunity to tell him I want out. The money might not be anywhere near as good with Curtis, but I sure as hell won't miss trailing around after that asshole, Robinson, or living with that constant feeling that I need to watch my back.

A soft hand squeezing my arm snaps my attention back to the here and now. 'Buy me a drink?'

She's short, about five two, red hair falling in soft curls around the hard, angular lines of her face, her thick make up only accentuating how young she really is, rather than disguising it.

'Sorry, sweetheart, I'm just leaving.'

'Something I said?' She exhales, smoke winding around her, her cherry-red lips twisting into a smile.

'I'm married.'

She laughs. 'Same as ninety percent of the other guys in here then.' She grips my arm a little tighter, stopping me from moving, as she slides her other arm around me and leans into my chest, presses her lips to my collar bone. 'I'm Mimi.'

'Yeah? Nice to meet you, Mimi.' I shift back out of her grasp and signal to the bar tender, pull some cash from my back pocket and set it on the bar. 'Look, I'll buy you a drink, but you got the wrong idea about me, I ain't looking for any company right now.'

'Why's that Shepard?' Brannigan appears out of nowhere, slings an arm across Mimi's skinny shoulders as he kisses her. 'Mimi's very talented, one of our best.'

I grin, try to make light of it. 'I'm sure she is, doesn't change the fact I'm not interested.'

I go to walk round him, keen to locate Robinson and escape this place for good, but Brannigan carries on talking, stopping me in my tracks.

'So, is it that you're not keen on redheads? Because we've got plenty of brunettes, if that's what you go for. Or maybe you'd prefer a blonde, someone to remind you of that pretty little wife of yours. Knocked up again, ain't she? What's that, baby number three? Gotta mean she ain't got much time on her hands for satisfying your needs, running around after little—now what were their names, again?' He shrugs, shakes his head, his face contorted into a smug grin. 'Anthony and Grace, that's right isn't it?'

'Yeah that's right.' Nausea hits me like a wave as I fight to keep calm. Desperate not to show him exactly how on edge I'm feeling over how much he seems to know about my family, I revert to playing the part of the womanising hood I used to be and make a show of leering at Mimi, looking her up and down, before staring at her tits. 'Look, its nothing personal, shes a good looking girl, and any other day... but right now I need to get on the road back to Tulsa before Lewis blows a gasket.'

'Is that right? Cause I was wondering whether maybe the truth is that the ladies don't exactly float your boat at all? Given the company you used to keep.'

'The hell's that supposed to mean?' I ask, even though I'm pretty sure I already know what he's getting at. He's already made it plain he knows about Leigh, so he's obviously done his homework on me. Should've listened to my gut, not let Chris talk me into coming back here one more time, especially now I've finally got an offer of a way out of all this. 'You said it yourself, I've got a wife, kids. I ain't no fag. Reckon youve got me confused with someone else.'

'You think? See, the rumour is that up in MacAlester, Tim Shepard was real tight with that murdering little queer, Bobby Castelli. Apparently the two of you were mighty close, so maybe you were more than buddies. He help you get through those long, lonely nights on the cellblock, Shepard? Payback for all those times you had his back in a fight?' Brannigan kisses Mimi, slapping her ass as he saunters away, one last jibe floating back through the air, his words slicing through me sharper than a blade between the ribs. 'Is that the real reason he was willing to take the rap for you, that day Jeffries bought it?'

And I'm certain this is it, my time is up, and any second now a couple of Brannigan's heavies will appear. That the next anybody hears of me is when my mangled corpse turns up in a ditch when a hand clamps down on my shoulder, Robinson looming over me. 'Alright, Shepard, quit daydreaming and get your ass in gear. None of these broads are gonna be interested in a loser like you, no matter how much you're paying them. Let's get out of here.'

* * *

It's late when I do finally get home and the house is lit up, every window illuminated. Every window apart from the middle of the wide bay window, the glass replaced by a sheet of hardboard, like a missing tooth in a pearly white smile.

Leigh's on her knees, sweeping glistening splinters of glass into the dustpan, while my brother closes the lid of his red tin toolbox, snapping the catches into place.

'What's happened?'

'Some asshole put a brick through the window,' my brother says with a shrug, 'most likely kids, messing about I guess. Doing it for a dare or something.'

'What? When?'

'Couple of hours ago.'

'Did you see who it was? Fucking assholes. I'll fucking kill them'

'No, Tim. I didn't see anything. I was busy, getting the kids ready for bed. And lucky I was. Otherwise...' Leigh shudders as she gets to her feet, her eyes drawn back to the rug. 'Tony was playing right there, about five minutes earlier. What if he had still been there?' Her voice cracks as she drags a hand across her eyes.

'But he wasn't, was he?' I gently place a hand on each of her arms and stare at her. 'The kids, and you? You're all okay, right? No one's hurt.'

'Where were you, Tim? You've been gone for over twelve hours. I needed you, but I didn't have the first clue where you were or how to contact you. What if one of them had been injured?'

My first instinct is to snap back at her. But one look at her makes it plain I shouldn't argue with her, that its probably the shock and stress of what's happened that's making her lash out at me. That I need to be strong, reassure her that Curly's right and it is just punk kids and it's nothing to worry about. But this, on top of that shit with Brannigan? I was an idiot for ever believing that phone call from Curtis meant my luck was about to change. Seems like it's always one step forwards and about twenty back for me, these days.

'Look, I'm sorry, alright? You know I'd rather be here, but I'm trying my best, working all the hours I can get.' I go to pull her into a hug, but she places a hand in the middle of my chest, keeps me at arms length.

'Yeah, sure. Working.'

'What the hell is that supposed to mean?'

'Means I'm not an idiot, Tim. So don't you dare keep treating me like one.' Leigh stalks away, disappears into the kids room, the door clicking shut behind her.

'I should probably get going and all. See you around, Tim.' Curly lifts his tool box, his shoulder knocking into mine as he strides past, scowling at me.

I grab his arm, yank him back to face me. 'Christ, not you too. What is it with you and her, always thinking the worst of me?'

'What are we supposed to think?' Curly sneers, shoving me away. 'If you want her to believe you've been working all night, then maybe you shouldn't roll home with some other girl's lipstick on your collar and reeking of cheap perfume.'

'What?' I wheel around and peer at my reflection in the hall mirror, spotting the dark red smudge that most definitely ain't Leigh's preferred shade of lipstick staining my skin and the blue cotton of my shirt, and rub at it, but only succeed in smearing it further. 'Shit. It's not how it looks, Curly. It was just some girl, trying it on down the bar. I haven't done nothing I shouldn't, I swear to God.'

'Yeah? You sure you're not turning into the old man, Tim? 'Cause that sounds a hell of a lot like the bull he used to tell Ma, back when we were kids. Or have you forgotten?'

'I'm not like him,' I insist, through gritted teeth.

'Then you don't have the first clue who did this? You can look me in the eye and tell me it's not some pissed off husband or boyfriend looking to get even with you by getting at Leigh and the kids? That this isn't all on you?'

'Fuck off, Curly. You know I wouldn't do anything to put them in any danger, or do something like that to Leigh. She knows it too. I might be a lot of things, but I'm not a cheat.'

My brother turns the door knob, steps out onto the porch. 'Yeah? Doesn't really matter what I think, it's not me you need to convince, is it?'

* * *

_A/N: Thanks for reading._


	9. Chapter 9

**Nine**

'Well, I better get a move on.' I ruffle Tony's hair then stoop to kiss the top of Grace's head as she taps her plastic spoon against the high chair tray. Swallowing a final mouthful of scalding hot coffee, I set down my half-full mug and glance towards Leigh, but she's preoccupied with making their breakfasts, head down as she pours juice into plastic beakers, shakes cereal into dishes. 'Wish me luck?'

'You'll do just fine, Tim, if you give it a chance,' Leigh mutters.

'Right.' I want to hug her. But even though we're kinda talking, and she swears up and down that she believes me every time I insist that nothing happened with that girl and that I ain't interested in anyone but her, three days later there's still a gulf between us. An icy chasm of awkwardness, mistrust and blame that I can't seem to bridge, no matter what I say or do. 'Be home for dinner.'

'Okay.' But she still doesn't stop what she's doing, doesn't turn round or even so much as glance as me. So I snatch up my car keys and head out the house, resisting the urge to slam the door behind me, because lord knows me resorting to that kinda histrionic shit Ange was always so fond of ain't gonna help me none.

As I pause to unlock the car door, a dark blue sedan slows at the end of the drive blocking my exit, sits there unmoving, the engine idling. I'm about to go give them a piece of my mind when the front door of the house creaks open, catching my attention, and the car glides away.

'Tim, wait.' Leigh calls from the step, her voice small as she holds out a brown paper bag and a battered thermos in front of her. 'Here. I made you these. Didn't want you going hungry.'

'Cheers.' My fingertips brush hers as she hands them to me over the top of the open car door.

'I am happy, that you're taking the job, with Darrel.'

She smiles, at me. But always my own worst enemy, I toss my lunch down onto the passenger seat of the car and shrug at her, crushing this tiny sprig of an olive branch she's offering in the process. Why is this so fucking hard for me? Why can't I just smile back at her? Nod? Tell her, _me too, _or actually admit how I'm feeling instead of being such a fucking asshole all the damn time?

'Well, I better get back inside, to the kids.' She shifts awkwardly, the thin cotton of her dress pulling tight as she folds her arms, accentuating the slight soft swell of her belly. 'Wouldn't wanna make you late, on your first day.'

'Leigh, wait.' I step away from the car and catch her by the hand. 'You know I love you, right?'

'Sure.'

'And you do believe me, don't you? That I didn't do anything with that girl, that I could never—'

'I said I did, didn't I?' she hisses, her voice barely more than a whisper as she avoids meeting my gaze. 'We talked about this a hundred times already, so why d'you need to keep bringing it up all the damn time?'

The growl of an engine cuts between us. That same motor comes back into view, on the other side the street this time. The window wound down as the heavy set driver turns his face towards us, eyes obscured by a set of mirrored shades, grins at me.

Leigh's hand slips from mine as she shifts to see what it is I'm looking at. 'Who are they?'

'No idea.'

'Course you don't.'

'Whoever they are, they're nothing to do with me.'

'You seriously expect me to believe that, Tim? After all those weeks of you never giving me a straight answer about where you were or who you were actually with?'

'You know where I was. Out working. So I could take care of you and our family. Pay our never-ending bills.'

'Sure. You can keep telling yourself that you were only doing it for us, but it's no secret that you enjoyed it, running with Chris, being back doing all that shit again. And what about that crap with the broken window? What if it wasn't kids messing around?'

'Who the hell else would it be?'

She gnaws at her bottom lip, as she glances past me to the street, at the two guys making no effort to hide the fact they're watching us from their car. 'Maybe you should ask them. What if Anthony had been still sitting there.'

'But he wasn't, was he?'

'But it just keeps going round and round in my head. What if he had, Tim, all that broken glass...' She reaches out her hand, her fingers brushing against the faded lines of my scars.

'What if he'd ended up even more like me, you mean?' I sneer, brushing her hand away. 'Wouldn't want that now, would we?'

'No! God, Tim, thats not what I meant!' Leigh sniffs, wipes fat tears from her cheeks as she turns away. 'Jesus.'

'Hey.' I rest a hand on her shoulder, pull her into my arms. 'I'm sorry, guess I'm a little on edge. New start and all.' Over the top of her head, I watch the sedan slip out of view. 'I swear things'll be different from now on. No more secrets.'

* * *

'Friends of yours?' Darrel nods towards my car, to the two guys loitering nearby. The shorter one lights a cigarette, while the other kicks at the tires. So much for me convincing myself I was seeing things on Monday. Its definitely those same two guys. Brannigan's goons from the roadhouse.

'Nope.' I pick up two boxes of tiles from the bed of his truck, carry on towards the house we're renovating.

Never one to be outdone, Darrel easily lifts the next three boxes from the pile, follows me into the kitchen. 'Because I thought I made it clear, I run a clean operation. So if you ain't onboard with that—'

'No, I am. I swear.' I dump the box onto the floor, next to the others. 'They're nothing to do with me.'

'Then sort it out, Tim. Don't need assholes like that hanging around, giving the neighbours something to complain about. So go tell them to get lost. Don't make me regret hiring you on only your third damn day.'

I nod, stalk back out of the house. Only by the time I get back to the kerb they're gone, the taillights of that same motor from Monday disappearing out of sight.

* * *

I'm about to hang up, when my brother eventually picks up, ten rings in. 'Hello?'

'Hey, its me.'

'Jesus, Tim.' My brother says, his words stretched and distorted through a yawn. 'What's the emergency?'

'Nothing. Need a favour. You busy tonight or can you sit with the kids an hour or two? Give me a chance to spend some time with Leigh. Figured I could surprise her, take her out some place nice, dinner or a movie or something. Just the two of us.'

'Yeah? You two getting on okay again now?' Curly asks, by which we both know he means has she forgiven me yet for being such a dick?

'Getting there. So seven o'clock?'

'Sure. And the job? You actually lasted a whole week then?'

I roll my shoulders, trying to dispel the constant ache from all the heavy lifting. Truth be told, it's boring as all hell, lifting and carrying and being told what to do by Curtis the control freak all damn day. But then the flip side of that? Being able to tell Leigh I'll be home for dinner with her and the kids and actually mean it, seeing how happy me doing some honest work again makes her as we inch closer to going back to how things used to be between us? That's worth any amount of pain and hard graft.

'All good. Don't be late.'

The floorboards creak beneath Leigh's feet as she steps out the bathroom, and I drop the phone receiver back into place.

'Morning.' She stretches up, kisses my cheek softly. 'Who you talking to?'

'No one.'

'But I thought I heard you, on the phone.'

'Oh, yeah.' I rub at the back of my neck. 'It was nothing. Just a wrong number.'

* * *

Turning into our neighbourhood, I coast the familiar streets, past the kids play park, towards home.

But when I reach our street my good mood evaporates. Those two jerks are back again. Standing there, staring at the house. Smirking. Laughing.

'Evening, Shepard, how's the family?' One of them calls.

Enough's enough. Ignoring them ain't solving nothing.

Making a quick one-eighty, I stride back towards them.

'The hell are you doing here?' My hand automatically moves to my back pocket as, for the first time in years, I find myself wishing I still carried a blade. Or kept a baseball bat in the back of the car. Something—anything—to give me an edge. 'Hanging around my house, following me about? Don't you boys have nothing better to do?'

The short guy grins at me. His fat buddy stretches, cracks his knuckles.

'Mitch sends his regards, says—'

'Ain't interested.' Fighting the ever-increasing urge to smack him in the mouth, I count to ten in my head, desperately trying to keep my voice even, give the impression I don't give a shit. 'So why don't the pair of you get in your car and go tell Mitch Brannigan that if he's got something to damn well say to me, then maybe he should get off his ass and say it in person.'

The lardy one shrugs, tugs open the car door.

But the short-ass doesn't budge, just smirks up at me. 'Like you're important enough for him to get his hands dirty over. You're just a loose end. Trash that needs taking out.' He takes a step back towards their motor, stops again and jerks his head towards the house. 'Pretty wife you've got up there, fine looking pair of kiddies.'

'Whats your point?' I snap, my hands balling into fists at my side.

He shrugs, kicks at stone in the gutter. 'Be a shame if anything happened to fuck all that up for you. Heard your boy had a near miss, the other day. Maybe next time—'

I wheel towards him, jabbing him in the chest as his threats and insinuations chew through the last shreds of my self control. 'If you lay a finger on any of them I'll—'

'You'll what?' He slaps my hand away, straightens up a little and sneers, 'You threatening me, Shepard? Am I supposed to be scared?'

'I ain't kidding, asshole. Brannigan's beef is with me. So you go tell your boss to leave them out of it.'

With that, I launch myself at him, manage to catch him on the chin with a left hook before the big guy wades in. But while he might be big, he ain't exactly fast, so the three of us scuffle, and I blindly throw punches back and forth, he somehow ends up on his ass. Giving me a brief window to concentrate on the mouthy one, pounding my fists into him, over and over and over. Again and again and again.

I pause with my fist drawn back for a second, my other hand twisting the front of his shirt as he coughs, spitting blood onto the asphalt. 'Don't show your face here again! Understand?' My fist connects with his face, bone shattering beneath my hand.

'Daddy!' Anthony screeches, his high-pitched voice rings in my ears and I freeze, my bloody fist hovering inches from the guy's mangled nose as his sidekick lumbers up off the sidewalk towards us.

Leigh chases out into the front yard behind Anthony, grabs his shoulder with her left hand to stop him running over to me, our sobbing daughter balanced on her right hip.

'Get back in the house!' I yell at her, waiting until she pulls our bawling son back inside the house before I drag Brannigan's henchman up by the shirt, shoving him into the side of his car.

* * *

'Leigh, stop. What're you doing?'

'What does it look like?' She pulls a couple of her dresses from the closet, sending the hangers seesawing on the rail, drags open the dresser drawer and grabs a handful of underwear then bundles it all into a bag already stuffed with some of the children's clothes. She tugs at the zipper, closing the bag half way before giving up and picking it up. Side-stepping around me, she snatches the car keys from the hall table, and heaves the bulging holdall into the trunk before dashing back inside, scooping Grace out of her cot and into her arms as she hands Tony his blue stuffed bear and tells him to hurry up. 'I honestly thought things were getting better, after this week, that you meant it when you said things would be different. But you never really change, do you?'

'But this is your home, you can't leave.'

'No, Tim. Home is somewhere you're supposed to feel safe. And that's not here. Not any more. The kids deserve better than watching their daddy beat a man half to death on the front lawn.'

'But I was only protecting—'

'You were out of control.' She bends down and prizes Tony's chubby fingers from her skirt as he cowers behind her, her voice gentle. 'Come on now, sweetie. Be a good boy for Momma and lets go get into the car.'

I trail behind her, watching, as she buckles them into the back seat, shuts the door before tugging open the driver's door.

'But where will you go?'

'Sylvia's. For tonight, anyway. She won't mind.'

'And then what?'

She shrugs, turns the key in the ignition and the engine roars into life, pulls the door shut with a heavy clunk, and drives away.

* * *

A/N: Thank you for reading :)


	10. Chapter 10

**Ten**

'The hell you doing sitting out here? I'm only five minutes late.' My brother calls, as he ambles up the drive towards me. 'So where you headed?'

Somehow it's dark already, cold too, my hands and feet numb, legs stiff from sitting slumped on the porch for God knows how long, my muscles aching from the beating.

'Just go home, Curly.' My voice is hoarse.

'But—'

I drag myself up onto my feet and back into the shadows, lurching away from him into my unlit house. 'But nothing. I said go home.'

'Tim, what's going on? Where's Leigh? And the kids?' He quickens his pace to catch up to me, grabbing my arm so I have no choice but to stop and face him as he flicks on the hall light. 'Holy fuck, what's happened?'

I shrug his hand away and shuffle towards the kitchen, but he ignores me, follows close on my heels.

'Tim, come on,' Curly persists, his tone softer this time, as he leans against the counter, arms folded across his chest. 'You know I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what's going on, so you might as get it over with.'

Curly stands silent, waiting, like the stubborn kid he always has been, watching me stumble about the room until I find what I'm looking for.

My hands still numb and my knuckles swollen and split, I struggle to get the cap off of the half bottle of bourbon, swallow down a large mouthful, the heat sinking through my chest to the pit of my stomach as I take a second gulp and wash down a handful of pain pills. 'Leigh's gone, Curly. Don't blame her either, not with the mess I've made of everything.'

'Come on, Tim. So she's mad at you. But whatever it is, can't be that bad can it? Give her some time and she'll forgive you.'

'Not this time.' I pick at the congealing blood on the back of my hand, reopening the wound.

* * *

'One thing I don't get, Tim. Why is this Mitch Brannigan so dead set on coming after you?' Curly asks, his hands working overtime, turning his lighter round and round, fingertips tracing across the smooth metal, betraying the increasing anxiety that he's somehow managed to keep out of his voice.

'Long story, Curly.' I slump back in my chair, and take another mouthful of bourbon straight from the bottle I'm cradling. The alcohol burns into my throat, but it still does nothing to numb the pain in my heart.

'But you weren't running the job. You were only working for Lewis. So why is Brannigan pissed with you? Why not target Chris and his family?'

'Like I said, long—'

'Yeah, yeah.' Curly talks over me. 'It's a long story. So you keep saying. But I don't have no place else to be.' He snatches the bourbon out of my hand, pours himself shot and sets the bottle down on the counter behind him, out of my reach. 'And neither do you. So why don't you get started?'

I stare down at the back of my hands, the cracks of my knuckles lined a dark reddish-brown. 'I had some dealings with Brannigan, back in the day.'

'When exactly? I don't remember him. And we never did business with anyone outside of Tulsa, did we?' Impatient for a response, Curly nudges my foot with the tip of his boot. 'Tim? Come on, man, whatever it is, it can't be that bad.'

'When I was in McAlester...' I shrug, falling silent because I'm not sure where to go, how exactly to say this. Not when I never really told him anything about the truth of that place. How bad it actually was.

'What, so you knew him there?' Curly leans forward, still fiddling with that damn lighter, his knee bouncing as he waits for me to continue.

The tick of the clock slices through the heavy quiet. My stomach churns. Might as well tell him, I guess. Ain't like him knowing can leave him thinking any less of me than he does already.

'I...One of the guys I ran with, Walt. He couldn't handle it, being in there, got caught up in shit, drugs, ended up owing Brannigan, big time.' _So much shouting, scuffling, voices echoing against the high ceiling of the mess hall, crowds pushing, jostling to see a fight... _'So when he couldn't pay...Brannigan sent one of his hoods to make an example out of Walt. I tried to stop it, to save him.' _Blood pooling on the floor, staining my hands, my clothes, on my face, air knocked out of my lungs by the guard's baton as Walt lies there, unmoving. The other guy, slumped beside him, his last breath gurgling and wheezing through his lungs_. 'Instead I ended up making everything a hundred times worse. Same as I always do.'

'Leigh know that you...' Curly's voice cracks.

'That I killed a guy?' I finish the sentence he can't bring himself to say then lean over him and swipe back the bottle, take a swig straight from it. ' Yeah.'

'Well, no wonder she freaked out, must've been a hell of a shock hearing that.'

'No. She ain't pissed at me over that, she's angry I put the kids in danger.' I down another shot. 'Told her that summer I came home from McAlester, back in sixty-seven. She's the only person out here I ever admitted it to. Until now, anyway.' I set down the bottle, fumble to light a cigarette. 'Thought her knowing would make her see me for what I am, scare her off. Instead I let her convince me I was worth saving, that we could have a normal life, be happy together. I wanted that so fucking bad, that I pushed it all down, buried it in the back of my mind and pretended it never fucking happened. Should've known it was too damn good to last.'

'Well she's right, isn't she? What you did in there, it was just a fight that got out of hand.' Curly gulps at his drink, drags a hand through his hair, his voice more high pitched as he continues to gabble at me. 'I mean, it ain't like you set out to finish him off, is it, Tim? You might have done some shit back then, we both did, but you're not a murderer.'

'Yeah, right. What about that guy's mother? His girl? Bet they'd say I was.' Palms on the table, I push myself up onto my feet. I'm done with talking. 'Lend me your car.'

'You think you're in any fit state to drive?'

'I haven't drunk that much. Gimme your keys.'

'No. Going to see Leigh right now, looking like that, isn't gonna help.' He gestures towards my filthy, blood-encrusted shirt as he slides his other hand out to pick his keys up from the table. 'Clean yourself up, get some sleep. Leave it to the morning and maybe she'll have calmed down enough you can at least talk to her, see the kids. Don't go storming over there making things worse than they already are.'

'Give me some credit. I'm not planning on doing that.' I shove his shoulder then hold out my hand expectantly, waiting for him to give me his keys. 'I can't lose her, Curly, so I need to put a stop to all this shit. Tonight. And the only way that's happening is if I confront Brannigan, face to face.'

'Then you definitely ain't borrowing my car. Think it through, Tim. Walking in there, on your own, with no plan, it's suicide.'

'Now Curly.' I take another step closer to him. 'I'm not in the mood for your bullshit.'

'No, Tim, You're making a mistake.' Curly stands up a little straighter, as he glares at me. 'And in case you forgot, I'm not a member of your gang or some punk kid no more, so you don't get to push me around and tell me what to do.'

'Oh yeah?' I sneer, shoving him backwards, his head clattering against the refrigerator door, my arm across his throat pinning him in place. Drawing back my other fist, I sucker punch him in the gut, and twist the keys from his grip as he struggles to catch his breath again. 'I'm doing this, tonight.'

* * *

I slow the car to a stop a hundred yards or so down the street, behind the derelict warehouse, and kill the engine.

It's late, gone midnight, but the dull thud of music still vibrates out of the roadhouse through the night air, a row of cars and bikes out front.

Picking my way through the shadows, I pause, watching the back door for a few minutes before edging closer.

My mouth is suddenly dry. Maybe this is a bad idea. Maybe I should turn the car around. Go pick up Leigh, our babies, and get the fuck away from here. Head west. She always says she wants to go to California and see the ocean one day, farthest either of us have ever been is Dallas. We could start again. Somewhere no one knows us, where no one knows _me_...

... and spend every waking moment waiting, wondering when my past mistakes will catch up with me again.

I put my shoulder against the heavy wooden door and turn the handle, slip inside.

* * *

'Well, you got balls, I'll give you that.' Brannigan mutters, as he enters his office to find me sat behind the desk, waiting for him. He pulls out the other chair, sits opposite me. If he's surprised to find me here, his expression doesn't hint at it. 'But you tell me, after the state you left my boys in earlier, why in hell you think you've any chance of walking back out that door alive.'

'This shit, is between you and me. You need to leave my wife and kids out of it.'

'I dunno about that, Shepard.' He smirks as he reaches across the desk, pours himself a large scotch into a heavy cut-glass tumbler and sips at it. 'Now what is it the bible says? An eye for an eye. So you gotta pay.'

The door behind him creaks open an inch or two and a tattooed face peers in at us. 'You need anything, boss?'

Brannigan shakes his head, waves the guy away. 'Nah. We're good. Just having a friendly chat with an old acquaintance, is all.'

Eventually, the door clicks shut.

'Why d'you even care so much about what happened to some cell block thug, especially after all this time?'

'Can't say that I do,' Brannigan replies with a slow shrug, 'But I don't like being made a fool of. You and Castelli, spinning that yarn back in McAlester about him being responsible. You might have got out of there before I knew the truth of it, strolling out the gate to enjoy your parole. But Castelli paid double. You know he never made it back out the infirmary, right? Never walked again? And so everyone believed it had been dealt with, knew not to fuck with me. But then you turn up here, after all these years? There has to be consequences. Everybody has to pay.'

He sets the glass down with a heavy thud against the polished wood of the desk, his eyes darting to the drawers beside my right knee, before he focuses back on me.

I shudder, my blood ice in my veins. Curly was right. I'm an idiot for coming here, thinking I can somehow talk my way out of this, no plan, no real way to protect myself.

'So do it then, end it now.' I lean forwards, pull open the the narrow drawer in front of me, and lift the revolver, setting it on the desk between us, just out of his reach. 'If you want rid of me that bad, why not pull the trigger and finish this.'

Brannigan lets out a loud, braying laugh. 'Don't think so. Me screwing up your life, taking your family is gonna be so much more effective than killing you would be, don't you think? I mean, sure, she'd be upset for a little while. Can picture it now, the beautiful, grieving widow, sobbing over your grave. For a week or two, anyway. Then after a while she'll move on, settle down with someone new. Someone better. Someone else your kids will grow up calling daddy.'

'No.' I lean forwards, fighting to keep calm, but I can't manage it, can't keep the hint of desperation at bay. 'There has to be some other way I can make amends. It was a fucking accident, alright? You know I was only trying to protect my buddy, and you knew the risks when you sent your man in there with a shiv. So there has to be some agreement we can come to. I'll do anything, whatever you ask, so long as you leave them alone.'

Brannigan leans back in his chair, slowly sipping from his glass, the corners of his mouth twisting up into an unfriendly smile. 'Anything?'

* * *

A/N: Thank you so much for reading :)


	11. Chapter 11

**Eleven**

I spend the morning driving around, trying to navigate the unfamiliar streets of Oklahoma City and make good on the deal I made with Brannigan in the early hours.

But so far, no luck. There's no sign of the guy, Robbie, I'm looking for at the address where Brannigan reckons he lives, or at the filling station where he sometimes allegedly works—when he can be bothered to show up. Which leaves a bar, a pool hall and his old lady's place for me to check before I'm all out of ideas.

It's likely too early for him to be in the bar, so I'm heading halfway back across town searching for his broad's apartment block when I realise I'm driving past Sullivan's right now, and the sign outside says it's open.

Sullivan's pool hall is dark and dingy, even though it's barely past midday. But despite me never having set foot in here before, it's reassuringly familiar. The kind of place where I understand the rules. The world where I belong.

Making a quick scan of the room, I spot the jerk Brannigan's sent me to find almost immediately amongst the two dozen or so patrons. Thick brown hair touching his shoulders, tattoos cover the backs of his hands and his forearms. I remember him hanging around out at the roadhouse a few weeks back, but we never spoke so I'm pretty sure he won't have the first clue I'm here because of him.

Robbie chalks the tip of his cue, blows away the excess blue dust then leans over the table and pots the black. He grins, then pockets the cash sitting on the edge of the table, crowing loudly to anyone who'll listen about how he can beat anyone if they're man enough to challenge him.

So Brannigan's information has finally paid off. Though I guess I shouldn't be surprised, given the scope of his operation and how much he seems to know about my life. Why wouldn't he keep tabs on other people too? I automatically glance over my shoulder, half expecting one of his heavies to be there, lurking in the shadows, ready to report back on whether I actually do this or not.

But there's nothing. Nobody watching. Well, no one except the bar tender, as she slowly wipes the counter down with a grimy dishrag.

'Beer please.'

'Sure thing, sweetheart.' The girl smiles at me. 'Don't think I've seen you in here before.'

I shrug. 'Just passing through.'

She sets the bottle in front of me, her fingers still round the neck. 'I'm Cindy, and you are?'

'Like I said, I'm just passing through.'

I pick up the bottle and retreat to an empty table with my beer, light a cigarette and wait.

* * *

Most of a pack of smokes, two and half beers and three hours later, I'm beginning to think this asshole ain't ever gonna leave this dive. Picking up my beer, I tilt the bottle. There's a half inch of warm beer, maybe less, left in the bottom. I should probably order another, given I've been nursing this one for three quarters of an hour now. But I can't risk drinking too much more. I have to keep a clear head and not fuck up my one chance to keep Leigh safe.

Maybe I should call it quits, go back out to the street and wait in Curly's car. It's parked right on the corner, I'll have a clear view of the door so I won't miss him if he ever does get around to leaving. Though given I'm fast approaching thirty six hours straight with no sleep, I don't exactly trust myself to stay awake if I'm sitting out there in a warm motor.

I take a small sip, and lean back in my chair. And then, out of the blue he's shaking hands with some other loser and saying his goodbyes as he shrugs on a beat-up leather jacket.

Setting the bottle down, I drop some cash on the table to cover my tab, snatch up my cigarettes and head outside before him, loitering out of sight in the next doorway.

Finally, just when I figure I'm wrong and he's not coming out here after all, the door swings open and he saunters towards me.

Pulling a cigarette from the carton and gripping it loosely between my lips, I make a show of patting pockets. 'Hey, buddy, you got a light?'

'Sure.' He reaches into his pocket with his chalky blue fingers and offers me a cheap plastic lighter, his brown eyes glassy from the booze.

I catch a hold of his arm, twist it up behind him. 'Move it.' I nudge him in the centre of his back, so he stumbles forward.

'What the hell?' The kid squirms as he tries to throw me off, but I grab him by the back of the neck with my other hand and shove him into the gloomy service alley behind the hardware store. 'Hey, man. Dont know what your problem is, but you got the wrong guy.'

'Don't think so.'

He twists and turns, breaks free of my grip for a second, swings a fist at me.

Sidestepping him, I lunge forwards and wrap my hand around his throat, crushing my palm against his windpipe as his head slams back against the brickwork. With my other hand I slip the new switch I bought this morning from my back pocket, press the tip of blade between his ribs and try not to dwell on what I'm doing here, about to knife some punk kid who's never done nothing to me. What might happen if I don't.

'Anyone screws Brannigan over, they've got to pay. And word is, you screwed him over big time.'

Voices and footsteps echo down the alley and his eyes dart hopefully towards the street.

'Keep your mouth shut.' I add a little more pressure to the knife, piercing through the thin fabric of his t-shirt and into his skin, drawing blood. 'Say one word and I promise it'll be your last.'

Finally, the alley is silent again, but ending it here where anyone could stumble onto us is too much of a risk. I draw back my fist, knock him down with a couple of quick punches.

* * *

We're far outside the city limits, the buildings thinned out way back, so by the time he finally wakes up we're surrounded by nothing but fields as far as the eye can see.

'Where you taking me?' He stares out the window for a few seconds then struggles against the thick gaffer tape binding his wrists and ankles for a minute or so, before slumping back against the seat. 'Brannigan's place ain't out here, it's on the other side of town.'

'Pretty sure I told you to keep your fucking mouth shut.'

'Look, I made a mistake.' He twists towards me. 'Tell him I'll get the money, pay him back, I swear.'

'I said, shut the fuck up.' Maybe I should've taped his mouth too. Don't need him whining and making me any more uneasy than I already am.

'But—'

I peel a hand off the steering wheel, smack him hard on the side of his head, so he bounces sideways, his skull thudding against the window. 'I ain't interested in listening to your bullshit. Now just be quiet, or I swear to God, I'll pull over and end you right now!'

He fidgets a bit more, unable to settle with his hands bound behind his back. But at least he takes the hint and doesn't say anymore. his front teeth working overtime as he gnaws at his bottom lip, making him look even younger than I first thought. He really is only a kid. Can't be more than eighteen, nineteen maybe. The same age I was when I was in McAlester.

We haven't passed a building in miles now, and the light is beginning to fade as the evening starts to set in. I take a left onto the next side track, heading deeper into the countryside, until the track becomes rougher and I'm in danger of writing off Curly's pride and joy if I attempt to drive much further over the ever increasing number of rocks and potholes.

Reaching under the drivers seat, I feel around for the gun I'd stashed there before leaving the roadhouse, and tuck it in the back of my jeans. I stride around the front of the car and fling open the passenger door, dragging Robbie out by the back of his jacket, throwing him down on the dusty ground. 'On your knees, asshole.'

'Please, mister,' he pleads, still sprawled on the dirt. 'I got some money, a fifty in my back pocket, more at home. You can give it all to Mitch. Or keep it for yourself. I'll pay him back, every cent, I swear to God, just don't shoot me, please.'

Jesus. I can't do this. But I have to, I have no choice. Brannigan made it clear. I do this one thing, and my slate is wiped clean. He gave his word.

I kick at his shins and then his stomach. 'I said get the hell up. Now!'

Slowly, laboriously, he inches himself up onto his knees and stares up at me, his face streaked with tears and snot and blood, all his cocky bravado from the pool hall vanished, so I'm faced with a scared kid, not the tough guy drug-dealing con-artist Brannigan had painted him as. 'Please, let me go, let me go. I don't want to die.' His words spill out, repeating the same desperate request over and over.

'Sorry, kid. It's not anything personal, but I gotta do this.' I curl my finger against the trigger, despite the tremor in my hand. All that matters, the only important thing, is protecting Leigh and my kids, keeping them safe.

'Please don't do this,' he pleads, his shoulders shaking uncontrollably as head slumps forwards, his mouth moving as he recites some prayer again and again.

My hand drops to my side and I back away towards the car, rest my hands on the hood, and take a deep breath. It all sounded so easy back at the roadhouse. Take out the lowlife cheating scum like Brannigan wants and save my family. Except this kid, well he doesn't seem so very much different from how I was at his age. A bit of a chancer, pushing his luck and trying to make a few bucks. Definitely no innocent, but that hardly means he deserves a bullet, does it?

I raise the gun again.

I _have_ to.

But then what if I do? How can I live with myself, knowing I did this? Deliberately, in cold blood. Not a fight gone too far or self defence gone wrong. That I'd be killer, by choice, with yet more blood on my hands and another life on my conscience.

I want to scream. Instead, I stride back to the car, slam my fist against the roof.

There has to be another way, a way we both come out of this alive. I need some time to think, to work this out.

Twisting the gun in my hand, I pistol whip him across the face, send him toppling back into the dirt.

* * *

**A/N:** thanks for reading...I'm hoping to have the next chapter finishes pretty soon :)


	12. Chapter 12

**Twelve**

I stroll back into the roadhouse for the second time in twenty four hours, only this time I use the front door instead of sneaking around. As I approach Brannigan's table, two of his heavies lumber away from the bar, flanking me as I get nearer, but he waves them away, along with that girl, Mimi, who's sat on his lap. 'Give us a minute sweetheart.'

She glares at me but doesn't argue, just picks up her glass, hips swaying as she slowly walks away.

I wait for what feels like forever until they're out of earshot, before I finally speak. 'It's done.'

'Fast work.' Brannigan smirks at me. 'Where's the body?'

'In a ditch, somewhere south of Enid, miles from anywhere. Ain't no one finding him any time soon.'

'Where exactly?'

'Pretty sure it'll be better if you don't know. What is it they call it? Plausible deniability or some kinda shit like that?'

'And I'm pretty sure we don't have a deal, without you giving me some kind of concrete proof.'

I reach into my inside pocket and toss the blood stained bank notes and Robbie's tattered drivers licence down on the table in front of him.

He picks them up, turns them over in his hand then chucks them to the ground. 'Means nothing.'

'That's why I brought you this, too. A little memento.' I place the dented tobacco tin in front of him. 'The kid's not gonna be bothering you no more.'

Brannigan pries off the lid, peers inside. 'You take this when he was already dead? Or before?'

'Before.' I shrug, force myself to grin at him, like it's no big deal. Plus technically it is the truth, the kid was alive.

As Brannigan reaches to pick up the contents, I avert my gaze and try not to picture the surprising amount of blood, or Robbie's endless screaming even though he agreed to it, because we both knew Brannigan would demand some kind of proof. And losing a finger had to be better than losing your life, right?

Brannigan holds the severed finger up to the light, then turns it and examines the tattoo on the knuckle, just above the chunky gold signet ring. laughs. 'Jesus, Shepard. Reckon maybe I missed a trick, not recruiting you, back in big Mac.'

'So we're good?' I ask, ignoring his last remark. 'The deal stands?'

'Yeah, Shepard. We're good.'

I nod, turn on my heel and saunter towards the door, fighting the temptation to run as fast as I can away from this nightmare.

* * *

I rest my head against the tiles. The scalding water courses down my back, the heat slowly seeping in to me, warming my aching bones. I don't have the energy to move. Slowly, the grime of the last two days washes off of my skin, but inside all the layers of guilt and unease remain.

Finally, when the hot water begins to give out, the rapidly cooling temperature forces me to move. Grabbing for a towel, I begin patting my skin dry, when I hear something. My shoulders tense, as I stand still and listen.

A car door slams.

Maybe Brannigan's changed his mind, or worse, found out the truth already and knows I lied to him.

Quick footsteps cross the porch.

Grabbing my grubby jeans back out the laundry, I struggle to pull them on as quickly and quietly as I can manage while the heavy denim fights against me, clinging to my damp skin. Holding my breath, I push my back up against the wall, and wait.

'Tim? Hello?' The front door clicks shut. 'Are you home?'

'In here!' I yell, my heart in my mouth at the sound of her voice. I tug open the bathroom door, stumbling out into the hall towards Leigh. 'Hi, are you—' The question dies on my lips as I look past her. No sign of the kids, she's here on her own. Nothing's changed.

'What's going on? Your brother turned up at Sylvia's earlier, ranting and raving on how he hadn't seen you since Friday night and he was supposed to be starting his shift but you still had his car. Then he started pouring out a whole load of gibberish about McAlester and how he thought you'd done something awful and you were in some kind of trouble. I needed to pick up some more things for Grace and Anthony anyway, so I gave him a ride to work, promised him I'd see if you were back here, let him know whether you were okay.'

'Right.' I fold my arms, unfold them again and drag a hand through my hair as Leigh crosses the hall so we're no more than six inches apart.

'So are you?' She looks up, holding my gaze. 'Okay, I mean?'

'Yeah. I'm fine. Was planning on heading over to see you, once I'd finished cleaning myself up. Curly's an idiot. He shouldn't be worrying you over nothing.'

'Hardly sounds like nothing, the way Curly tells it. He was in a real mess, Tim, worst I've seen him since your mom... He was terrified you weren't coming home, after what you'd told him about McAlester, seemed convinced you were going to do the same again.'

A shiver crawls up my spine, at how near the mark she is. Leigh rests a hand on my cheek, tracing the lines of my scars with her fingertips.

'Come on, Leigh.' I place my hand over hers, press my lips to the soft skin on the inside of her wrist. 'You know how my brother is, always making everything into more of a drama than it really is.'

'I guess. But why tell him now, when you never did before?'

I shrug. 'Because I'm a jackass. I was drunk and angry and hurting, shooting my mouth off rather than admit the only reason you'd gone was because of me.'

'No. There's more to it than that. You've barely mentioned anything about McAlester in years now, even to me.' She steps back, her fingers still entwined with mine. 'So what's the real reason you dragged it all up again?'

I squeeze the bridge of my nose, unsure how to begin. How in hell can I answer that without dragging her into it all?

Leigh's hand slips from mine. 'Well, I guess I should get on.'

She retreats into the kids bedroom, emerges only a minute or two later with a grocery bag, stuffed with clothes and a couple more of their favourite toys, while I stand here, rooted to the spot.

As she heads for the door, she pauses in front of me. She rests her hand on my arm, her gaze downcast. 'If you wanted to come see the kids later, or after work tomorrow. Then it would be okay. And will you ring your brother, let him know you're back?'

'Sure,' I mumble.

'Bye then, Tim.' She bobs up, her lips brushing my cheek with the briefest of kisses, then walks away from me again.

'Leigh, hang on a sec.' I stumble down the hall after her. I can't stand here and watch her leaving, not again.

Her shoulders slump as she sighs, but at least she stops. 'What is it?'

'It was when I was working for Chris, I ran into some guys from those days, who were inside the same time as me. And one of them, he's a real asshole, was the guy who sent them after my buddy, Walt.'

'Jesus, Tim.' The bag drops from her hand, landing on the carpet with a soft thud.

'So yeah, there was a bit of a misunderstanding, some tension between me and them. Which is what all that shit was with those two jerks on Friday. But, I've dealt with it, went up there yesterday to thrash it out with the guy.'

'What d'you mean, thrash it out? Not more fighting, Tim?'

'No. We talked, nothing more, and now it's all sorted. We came to an understanding, so no one's going to bother us again, I swear. So please, can we work on fixing things between us too?'

I rest my hand on her hip, and instinctively Leigh leans against me, allows me to draw her into my embrace, and wraps her arms around me.

'I miss you,' I murmur against her hair, breathing in the scent of her, coconut shampoo, layered over sweet vanilla of her perfume, my hands and mind wandering, as I kiss her, softly, hopefully. 'Stay?'

* * *

'I should probably get going, before Sylvia thinks I've left the country or something.' Leigh sits up, the bed sheets clutched around her as she stretches to pick up her discarded clothes from the floor and slips on her panties, arms twisted awkwardly for a second or two as she struggles to fasten her bra.

'Don't go.' I sit up behind her, brush her hair to the side as I trail my lips down her neck and across her shoulders, snake a hand around her waist. 'Please? I need you, Leigh. I love you, so, so much. So how about we pick up our kids, bring them home and be a family again?'

Leigh twists her head, kisses me softly, then shakes her head. 'I... God, you know I love you, Tim. But I don't know if it's enough any more. One minute you say you want a family, how this is where you want to be, but—

'It is, I swear. You and the kids, you're all that matter. I promise—'

'No.' Leigh raises her hand and presses a finger to my lips to silence me. 'I told you the other day, I'm sick of empty promises, Tim. Being with you, like this, it's great. But there has to be more than the physical stuff keeping us together, otherwise pretty soon we'll end up hating each other, and that's not fair on anyone.'

'So what do I do? Tell me what it is and I'll do it, Leigh. Whatever it takes. Just come home.'

She gnaws at her bottom lip for a few seconds, then eventually nods. 'Alright. We'll get dressed, go fetch the kids. But you have to change, Tim. Stick at the job with Darrel, spend time with Anthony and Grace, and this little one, when they get here. Talk to me, properly, not just saying what you think I want to hear.' She shifts my hand, resting it on the soft curve of her stomach, as she kisses me. 'Be the man I married again.'

* * *

'Quick, come here, quiet now! Daddy's coming!' I can hear Leigh's stage whisper, Grace's giggle and Tony's seriousness as he shushes his sister, a smile working its way onto my face as I head towards the kitchen.

'Happy birthday, Daddy!' The kids rush me as I crouch down, drawing them both into a hug.

'We made you a chocolate cake, come see.' Anthony drags at my hand, his fingers still sticky with the frosting they've been smothering it with.

'Wow, that's amazing, kiddo. And you two did this all by yourselves?'

He laughs. 'No, silly. Momma helped us.'

'Maybe a little bit.' Leigh laughs, kisses me quickly, then takes a half step back. Two weeks in, and things are going better between us, good even at times. But even though she's back there's still an air of awkwardness hanging over us, no matter how hard each of us tries to pretend everything's just fine. 'Happy birthday, Tim.'

I catch a hold of Leigh's hand, thread my fingers through hers. There's so much I want to say, but I can't find the right words in the fleeting seconds before Grace starts up tugging at Leigh's dress and Anthony pleads for her to cut the cake now. So she's slipping away and the moment is lost beneath the chaos of cake eating, bath times and bedtime stories.

'Well, they're both in bed anyway.' Leigh sinks down onto the couch next to me, leans her head against my shoulder. 'Though maybe in hindsight so much sugar was a bad idea, reckon it might be hours before Tony winds down and actually goes to sleep.'

'You want me to go check on him?'

'In a while, maybe.' Leigh stifles a yawn.

'You feeling okay?'

'I'm fine, a bit tired.'

I wrap an arm around her, rest my hand on her stomach. 'And everything's going alright with this little one?'

'Yeah.' She places her hand over mine. 'You reckon it'll be a boy or a girl?'

'Another girl.' I kiss the top of her head. 'And she'll be smart and pretty, like her mom and her big sister. Trust me, two boys has to be way more trouble than a pair of girls, if me and Curly are anything to go by.'

'Oh yeah?' Leigh smiles up at me. 'I'll make sure and remind you of that when you've got two teenage girls in the house, and both of them start dating.'

* * *

The phone is already ringing as I step in through the door. 'Hello?'

'You really think you could get away with lying to me, Shepard? Or believe I wouldn't find out in the end?'

'What the hell you talking about, Brannigan?' I fight to keep my voice even as my mind races, racking my brains to remember where in hell Leigh told me she had planned for the day. Running around town doing errands whilst I take up Darrel's offer of a few extra hours of overtime, on a Saturday morning. Pretty sure she said she was going to the grocery store, the pharmacy...something else...where else?

'The kid, Robbie. You must be even dumber than he is. Thinking you could pull one over me.'

'Don't know what you mean. Told you before, the kid's in the ground.'

'Then explain to me how he's ringing his broad to let her know he's had to leave town for a bit, but he's safe down in New Mexico and he'll send her the money for a bus ticket soon as he can. So now I've had to send someone else down there to find him. Someone who'll do the job right, like you were supposed to.'

Shit. Shit. Shit. I stand frozen to the spot, unable to speak. Three weeks in and I'd let myself relax, convinced myself that he believed me, and and the bullshit story I'd passed off as the truth.

'What's wrong? Cat got your tongue, Shepard?' Brannigan laughs. 'Your kid, he's getting real grown up, ain't he. Real brave on the jungle gym.'

...The park. Leigh told me they were gonna stop at the park on their way home, let Tony blow off some steam, burn up some of his seemingly endless supply of energy.

The phone clatters down against the table and the front door rattles on its hinges as I bolt out the house.

* * *

_**A/N: **Thanks to everyone who's still reading._


	13. Chapter 13

**Thirteen**

My chest is tight, my breathing laboured, lungs on fire. But I keep running, legs pumping as my work boots pound against the sidewalk.

Slowing to a jog as I round the corner, I scan the street. There's no one out of place, the phone booth empty. I cross towards the park, they have to be here, somewhere. I have to find them,

Leigh is pushing Grace on the swing-set, as she chats to another mom at the next swing. But where's Anthony? He's not with her. Why is he not—

And then I spot him, hidden amongst a gaggle of other small boys his age, dangling from the bars of the ancient climbing frame.

As I stride through the rusty iron gate and past the long-broken fountain, Leigh looks up. She smiles at me, and for a split second all the crap of the few weeks is forgotten and I'm eighteen again, on a sultry spring night and I'm walking Leigh home from some crappy house party, where unexpectedly running into her had been the one and only highlight of the evening. Stopping, right here in this park, in an obvious and unsubtle attempt to spend a little more time with her.

Out on the street a truck rumbles by, jolting me back to the here and now.

'Momma, look!' Anthony yells. 'I'm at the top!'

'Tony, get down from there, now,' I bark.

'He's okay.' Leigh frowns. 'He's done it plenty of times, he won't fall.'

'No.' I glance around, eyes darting left and right. 'He needs to get down. We have to go.'

Movement catches my eye. But it's only a bunch of teenagers passing by, laughing and joking around as they lark about.

'Why? What's happened?' Leigh rests a hand on the chain, slowing the swing and plucking Grace out of the bucket seat as the other mom makes no effort to hide the fact she's listening in.

'Not here. I'll explain when we get home.' I glare at the other woman, then turn back towards the climbing frame. 'Tony! I said get down here! Now!'

But he still doesn't move, his bottom lip trembling as fat tears roll down his pink cheeks and his chubby fingers grip tighter onto the metal bars. 'No, Daddy!'

'Don't make me come over there!' I stride towards him, but Leigh grabs my elbow, thrusts our baby girl into my arms.

'Jesus, Tim, what's got into you? You settle Grace in the stroller and I'll get him.'

As I fumble to fasten the straps around my daughter, Leigh holds out her hand to Anthony and beckons for him to climb down. Eventually, he nods and slowly clambers down.

Leigh kneels to give him a quick hug, wiping away his tears with the pad of her thumb, then taking his hand in hers. 'Come on, baby, don't cry, there's a good boy. Now let's go home.' She smiles, scoops him up into her arms, even though he's getting too big for her to carry very far these days, his face burrowed against her shoulder as he flatly refuses to look at me.

I'm ushering them out the gate, as the same truck rounds the corner again, driving too slow, the driver hidden behind the tinted windows. I brace myself, but it cruises on by. But we don't make it more than ten yards down the sidewalk before Anthony starts up bawling again, his arms stretched back to the park as he struggles against Leigh until she's forced to set him back down on the ground.

'Damn it, what now, Tony?' I snap, snatching a hold of his arm before he bolts away.

Anthony scowls at me. 'But—'

'I already told you, we're going home.'

'No!' He wriggles and squirms, one arm slipping out of his coat as he kicks at my shins, then points back to the park. 'My fire truck! I forgot my new fire truck!'

'Not now—' I start up, at the same time Leigh tries to placate him. 'It's okay. Quick now, you come with me and we'll go fetch it.'

And before I can stop her, she takes his hand and they're darting back across the grass to retrieve it.

I check the street again, watching the traffic, shifting from foot to foot as my anxiety threatens to overtake me.

Leigh bends down, scooping up the toy and handing it to Anthony. She ruffles his hair, pats his back to send him running back towards me as she follows a few steps behind.

The truck circles back round the block again, slowing again, the nearside window rolling down as it approaches. The passenger is Brannigan, eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses, his teeth a bright white crescent against his tanned skin as he cracks a grin, raises his hands. Hands gripping a shotgun. A shotgun he's pointing at my son.

'No!' I grab my boy, shoving him down onto the ground, as I position myself between my daughter and the truck.

Brannigan laughs, adjusts him aim a few degrees.

A loud crack rings in my ears.

Tyres squeal against the asphalt. The truck speeds away.

Leigh stops, her expression confused as she looks down. The tiny pink rosebuds winding across the fabric of her dress blossom a deep scarlet.

'Tim?' She touches a hand to her side, as her knees buckle.

'No!' I screech, rushing to her, barely managing to catch her in my arms before she hits the ground. 'Leigh, babe, I'm here.' I scream for someone, anyone, to call an ambulance, get help, find a doctor. Anything.

'My babies?' Leigh struggles to look around. 'Where're—'

'Shh, it's okay, they're safe, they're both fine.' I cradle her against my chest, press my palm to her side, but the bleeding won't stop. 'Just stay with me, stay awake.'

Anthony runs up, 'Mommy!' he wraps his arms around Leigh's, buries his head into her side then tugs at her hand. 'Mommy, get up!'

She winces at the movement, and with every word, but even now she comforts him. 'Tony, sweetie. Mommy's okay... I fell over, that's all. Be a good boy...watch your sister for me...Let me catch my breath a minute?'

'An ambulance is coming.' The woman from the swings squeezes my shoulder then takes Anthony's hand. 'Come on, Tony. Why don't you come over here and show us that cool fire truck of yours?'

He nods, lets her lead him back towards Grace and her own kid.

'Take care of them, Tim, promise me.' Leigh watches him for a second, before her eyes become glazed and unfocused.

'Leigh.' I squeeze her hand, attempting to keep her attention. 'Just stay with me, darling, stay awake. We'll look after them, together. You and me, I promise...'

My desperate pleas are swallowed up as the ambulance and cop cars approach, sirens wailing, quickly followed by shouting, and rough hands pulling me away from her, until I'm left alone, nothing more than an observer on the edges.

Two paramedics lean over Leigh, talking in low quick voices and their hands busy, pressing on her wounds, lifting her onto a trolley.

'Mr Shepard?' A hand grips my arm, shaking me in an attempt to get my attention. 'Mr Shepard, Sir?'

It's a young cop, his serious face pale with concern, only it's all I can do not to laugh at him. A cop, calling me Sir? That has to be the most ridiculous thing I ever fucking heard. I mean, him knowing my name, ain't too much of a stretch. Time was half the cops in Tulsa knew Tim Shepard. But now... 'What? You wanna ask me some questions?'

'No, Sir. Least, not right now. But if you want to go in the ambulance with your wife, well they're leaving any second.'

'Leaving?'

He steers me towards it, talking real slow, like I'm some kind of fucking idiot. 'Yeah. For the hospital?'

I'm about to step into the ambulance, whirl around desperately. 'Wait, my kids.'

'They're with Officer Dooley.' He points across to where another cop is showing Tony the inside of their car while she rocks Grace in her arms. 'She'll follow down to the hospital with them, meet you there, find someone we can call to look after them for you—a friend or a family member, maybe. But right now, you have to go. Quickly.'

Nodding, I climb the rest the way in the ambulance, sit on the cramped fold down seat the paramedic points at, before he yells to his partner we're good to go.

They're talking throughout the journey, back and forth between the guy hunched over Leigh, the driver, the radio dispatcher. Fast and rushed, a shorthand between themselves that I don't understand. Don't want to understand, either, if their sombre tone is anything to go by.

I shrink back on the narrow seat.

This is wrong. She shouldn't be the one suffering. They were my choices, my mistakes.

* * *

'Tim?' Someone nudges my arm.

There's a cold cup of coffee, untouched on the table beside me. In the far corner of the busy ER waiting room, Grace and Anthony chatter and play with the lady cop, and somehow Curly is sat here beside me though I don't remember calling him.

How long have I been here? The clock says it's three already, but it can't be, can it? Only feels like seconds ago I was in the park, when Leigh was—I stare at Curly, at the name badge clipped to his blue shirt. _E SHEPARD_ in thick black letters _Orderly_ in slightly smaller script beneath.

'Shouldn't you be working?' I ask. 'Don't need you getting the sack or nothing.'

'Told you already,' he says softly. 'My boss says I can wait with with you, given the circumstances. Ain't like I'd be much use to them today anyway, not gonna be able to concentrate, not until we get some news.'

'News? Nobody's told me a thing since we got here, other than to sit and wait, or someone'll be with me soon as they can. No news is good news, isn't it? Has to be, doesn't it?' I lurch up onto my feet as panic threatens to swallow me.

'I know, buddy.' Curly stands too, goes to hug me, but I shrug him away.

'What's taking so goddamned long, Curly? I need to see her. Why won't they let me—' My words break off, swallowed in a strangled sob.

My brother stares down at his feet, at the walls, across at the kids as he does everything he can to avoid meeting my eye. 'Look, no one's keeping you in the dark, I swear. She, well, they couldn't save the baby. But Leigh's still in surgery. She's hurt bad, Tim, but she's a fighter, she'll pull through, won't she?' He chokes on his words, wheels away as he angrily drags a hand across his eyes, and sniffs.

High heels clack against the floor tiles and a glimmer of a smile ghosts across my brother's face. 'Thank God. Here's Sylvia, she's going to take the kids back to hers, just for tonight until—'

Sylvia slaps me hard across the face, sends me reeling into my brother, then pounds her fists into my chest. 'You rat bastard asshole, this is all your fault!'

'Sylv, stop!' Curly tries to drag her away, calm her down. 'You're not being fair. Tim didn't—'

'Tim didn't what? Pull the trigger? He might as well have, we all know this only happened because of him.' Sylvia glowers up at me, jabs me in the chest with her finger. 'It should be you in there, not her. What the hell did you think you were doing, getting mixed up with shit like that again?' She sniffs, her temper subsiding as she glances towards the kids. 'You ring me, Curly Shepard, the minute—no, the second—she's out of theatre or they tell you anything.'

Sylvia stalks away without waiting for an answer from either of us, her expression morphing into a phoney plastered-on smile as she hugs Grace then Anthony, starts helping them into their coats.

Not that I got anything to say to her, anyway. No sharp comebacks or smart-mouthed comments. Because Sylvia's right. This is on me. I never should've tried to be smart, or trusted that kid to keep his end of the deal. Now, because of my own stupidity, my arrogance, I've got Leigh's blood on my hands.

* * *

'We need to ask you a few questions, Mr Shepard.'

The sneer in his tone startles me out of my daze. Cheap polyester suit with a sheen on the elbows and a greying shirt with the buttons straining across his pot belly. He might not be wearing a uniform, but he's most definitely a cop. Think he probably arrested me one or two times, back in the day.

'Seriously? Can't it wait?' Curly asks, putting himself between me and the detective.

'No.' He leans forward, folds his thick arms across his chest. 'It can't fucking wait. Now sit down and shut up before I do you for obstruction.'

My brother's anger deflates. 'Sorry. But you ought to be out there, looking for them, instead of wasting your time hassling my brother.'

'And my colleagues are doing all they can. There's just a couple of things I need to clarify.' The cop turns away from Curly, drags a chair away from the wall and settles himself down right in front of me. 'We have witnesses who said you were agitated when you arrived at the park, and you were demanding your wife leave right away.'

'Just keen for them to come home, Officer, so we could get on with our weekend.'

'So you weren't shouting at her? Or your boy?'

'Guess I might've been a bit loud. I'd had a shit morning at work, and I just wanted us all to go home.' I peer down at my hands, at the dried blood—her blood—staining my shirt. Nausea hits me like a punch in the gut. I hope Leigh heard me telling her I love her and she remembers that, not the five minutes before when I was acting the prize jerk and snapping at her.

'Sure, of course you did. What is it you do for work these days?'

'Construction.'

'Right.' He scribbles in the small notepad resting on his fat knee, before going back and forth, asking me question after pointless question, until finally he's had enough. 'So let me get this straight, for the record. You're telling me you don't have the first idea who might've done this?'

I rub at the back of my neck as he stares at me. Part of me wants to say to hell with it, spill everything about Brannigan, the whole sorry mess. I open my mouth, shut it again. There's no point telling him, because they'll never find any real proof. It'll have been a stolen car, unregistered gun. No fingerprints, nothing to link it back to Brannigan. Least that's how I would've done it, and Brannigan's way more calculating than me. 'Sorry, no.'

'Really? None at all? You're wife gets hit in a drive-by shooting, and you want us to believe it's some kind of fluke accident? We both know that ain't how these things work, Mr Shepard. So who d'you piss off enough that they'd want to do something like that, in a park full of little kids?'

I shake my head. 'I told you, I don't know.' All I know is, one way or another, I'm going to make Brannigan suffer.

* * *

'Mr Shepard?' The doctor coughs a little to clear his throat, pushes his hands into the pockets of his starched white coat.

'How is she, doc?' Curly asks.

I bounce up on my feet. Finally, someone who wants to tell me something. A tiny fragment of hope glimmers in my mind. Maybe Leigh's okay, and she's awake... 'Can I see her now?'

'Soon. Could you come with me, first?' The doctor doesn't wait for an answer. Head down, he strides across the corridor into a small empty room behind the nurses station, while the nurse gestures for us to follow him.

My brother's face is grey, guess he already knows from working here what I'm suspecting, as pain crushes me once more. Nobody ever get's taken in here to be given good news.

* * *

A nurse guides me into the hospital room and sits me in the chair beside Leigh. 'Talk to her, if you want to.'

My brother trails in behind me, hovers beside me, his hands pushed deep into his pockets.

If it wasn't for all the tubes and wires, then I could believe she's only sleeping, like if I say her name loud enough or squeeze her hand then she'll wake up, eyes bleary with sleep as she smiles at me.

Except of course she doesn't, no matter how many times I say her name. She never will. The doctor made that very clear. Instead the bed is surrounded by machines, bleeping and whirring, breathing for her, giving us the illusion she's still here.

Tears prick at my eyes as I struggle to my feet. 'Can you give me a minute with her, alone?'

'Sure.' Grim faced, my brother pulls me into a bear hug, then steps away, opening the door, a rush of sound pouring in from the corridor. 'Take as long as you need. I'll be right outside.'

I sit back down on the chair, get up again almost instantly and perch myself on the edge of the hospital bed, lace my fingers through hers.

'I'm sorry.' I lean across, kiss her forehead. My shoulders shake as heavy tears roll down my cheeks. 'Please wake up, Tony and Grace, they need you.' I trace small circles on her palm with my thumb, softly, gently. 'I know I fucked up, made mistakes. But I love you, Leigh. I'll do anything, just don't leave me. I don't know how to do this without you.'

I sink into silence and stare at her, desperate for some kind of sign—a twitch of her hand or a flicker of her eyelids—some hint she's heard me. Nothing.

One of the machines gives out a high pitched, monotone wail, summoning a nurse. She buzzes around, leaning between us and I step back, Leigh's fingers slipping through mine.

More staff swarm in. In the chaos, I'm edged further backwards, away from Leigh, powerless to stop my world from ending.

Then, as quick as it started, the commotion comes to an abrupt end.

A painful calm descends on the room.

I'm alone.

* * *

_**A/N: **So, the story has finally caught back around to where it started in chapter one. But it doesn't feel quite finished yet and there's still a few loose ends to tie up, on how Tim copes (or not) without Leigh, so there's still afew more chapters to come._

_In the meantime, a huge thank you to everybody who's read this far, and also to anyone who's followed/favourited, and especially reviewed - it's been great getting your feedback on this :)_


	14. Chapter 14

**Fourteen**

Leigh leans closer, her lips feather light against mine, her breath hot as her hair falls forwards across her face. I go to wrap my arms around her but she steps back, slips just out of reach.

The corners of her mouth lift into a smile as she beckons for me to follow her.

I try to. I _want_ to. I _have_ to. But my feet drag, heavy as lead while she gets further away. In desperation I stretch out a hand, willing myself closer. My fingertips almost brush the cotton of her dress, the pink rosebud print blossoming scarlet beneath my touch. Spreading, surrounding. Drowning. Sinking into the darkness while she vanishes.

I'm alone.

I sit bolt upright, my hands searching the cold empty space beside me, despite part of my brain already knowing that it's a lie. She's not here, I can't change anything.

It's all in my mind.

Same dream I have every time I sleep—unless I'm steaming drunk, so I guess last night's booze is finally wearing off. My head is thick, and the weak sunlight peeking between the slats of the venetian blind burns into my eyes.

Out of nowhere, bile rises in my throat, the bitter acid eating into me. Throwing back the lilac sheets, I barely make it across the unfamiliar hall and stumble into the tiny bathroom, just in time to hunch over the toilet bowl, retching and puking like some fucking kid the first night they ever drank too much.

I slump down on the cold floor tiles with my back against the bathtub, and close my eyes. The calm before the storm as I think about all the dozens of ways I'd like to hurt Mitch Brannigan, while I wait for the next wave of nausea to hit.

One things for certain, I need a gun.

My forehead pounds, as though it's about to explode.

Though maybe it'd be better for everyone concerned if I used it on myself.

'You're awake then.' My sister stands in the doorway, a shoulder against the doorframe and her arms folded as she studies me.

'How'd I end up here? Where's Curly?' Dim memories of my brother dragging me out of a bar and bundling me into his car, creep into the corners of my mind. Him half-carrying me up the three flights to Angela's tiny apartment, dropping me down onto her bed, someone tugging my shoes off. The two of them standing over me, voices low, heads together.

'Jesus, Tim, how drunk were you last night? He had to go to work, dumbass. And you're here 'cause he didn't think you could be trusted to be left on your own.' Her nose wrinkles as she looks down at me, sitting at her feet and stinking like the inside of a dive bar in my filthy, sick-spattered shirt. 'And judging by the state of you, I guess he was right.'

'What time is it?'

'A little after two. In the afternoon.'

'Shit.' I drag a hand over my clammy face. 'You should've woken me earlier.'

My sister rolls her eyes at me, but her voice softens, ever so slightly. 'It's fine. I Figured the sleep might do you some good. You've been out cold ever since he dumped you here.'

Jesus, I must be a fucking mess if Angela's going soft on me. My brother, he's always been the emotional one, but not my sister. But the last thing I need right now is her pity.

'Yeah? Well sorry to inconvenience you,' I mutter, my voice cracking as I try and fail to hide how close I am to losing it beneath a cloak of sarcasm. I struggle to my feet, thrown off balance by the way the room is still spinning as I lurch towards the door, but Angela doesn't budge to let me pass. 'But I'm up now, so I'll get out of your hair.'

'No, Tim. What's gonna happen is you're gonna get your ass in the shower, clean yourself up, sober up some more, while I make you something to eat.' She pushes past me, turns on the faucet. 'Curly left you some clean clothes, they're in the bedroom.'

'Yeah, alright.' Not bothering to unfasten the buttons, I drag my shirt up over my head. 'But don't bother with any food. I'm not hungry.'

'Don't care, you still have to eat, Tim. You can't get by on beer and shots.' Angela scowls, tosses a fresh towel at me. 'I mean, look at you, you're skin and bone.'

'So?'

'So enough's enough. It's been a week, Tim. Which I know, is nothing, that it still feels like it all happened seconds ago. But you owe it to them, to Leigh, to at least try to pull yourself together.'

Angela saying Leigh's name like that is like a punch in the gut, knocks the air from my lungs, sends me fumbling to grasp the edge of the washbasin to steady myself. 'I can't do this.'

Tears prick at my eyes as my sister hugs me. 'Yeah, you can. With me and Curly. We'll be here. Now get yourself looking halfway presentable, and we'll go see your kids.'

* * *

Even before I'm through the front door, I know this is a mistake. Though at least they're here at Curly's. I'd rather the bad associations of this, my one-time childhood home than having to walk into my own house and the barrage of memories inhabiting that place.

'Hey, look who's here!' Curly beams up at me from the lounge carpet where he's sat cross-legged with Grace balanced on his knee, alongside Anthony who's busily lining up all his cars. 'You two gonna say hello to your dad?'

Tony looks up, peers at me from beneath his dark lashes, his voice not much more than a whisper. 'Hi, Daddy.'

'Hey, buddy. What're you two doing?'

'Nothing.' Tony frowns, focuses back on his toys.

Unsure what to do, I perch on the sofa, watching them, relieved that Grace toddles over, arms outstretched for me to lift her onto my lap. At least one of them wants to see me.

'Hi, princess.' I kiss the top of her head as she hugs me, chatters away in half-formed words as Curly and Angela plaster on fake smiles and pretend like there's nothing missing.

Grace fidgets, twisting about as she watches Tony's game, then crawls away across the couch, arms stretched up to the mantle and to Leigh smiling down from his cluttered row of family snapshots. 'Mama.' she points, fingers stretching as she leans across, repeating it over and over, louder and louder. Every repetition like a knife in my heart. I should pick her up, say something, comfort her. But the walls are closing in on me. I can't breath. I need to get out.

'Tim?' Curly's voice follows on my heels but I don't stop.

I'm tempted to run for it, bolt down the street and into the nearest bar. Except I know he'll follow me, drag me back again, so what's the point? Instead I turn towards the quiet of the kitchen.

My heart is racing, the pressure in my skull becoming almost unbearable again as the aspirins I swallowed back at Ange's begin to wear off.

Rummaging around, there's a conspicuous lack of booze, or painkillers—the only thing I find in the back of the pantry is a solitary bottle of warm lager and a couple jars of Ma's old meds tucked high up on the highest shelf. But I guess they're better than nothing, might take the edge off at least.

Unscrewing the cap, I swallow a couple down dry, sliding the pot into my pocket as the floorboards behind me creak beneath my brother's feet. He stands beside me, shoulder to shoulder, both staring out at the orange glow as the sun dips behind the horizon.

'You okay?' Curly asks.

'Yeah.'

'They are pleased to see you, y'know.' He fiddles with the jars on the countertop, twisting them a few degrees here and there so the labels face forward.

'Sure.'

'Come on, Tim. It's gonna take some time, but—'

'Time?' I jam my hand in my pocket, my fingers finding the smooth surface of Ma's pill bottle. 'That's all everyone keeps saying to me. Give it time... Time for what, though? Time for them to forget her? I mean, goddamnit, Curly, Ange can barely remember the old man and she was what, a few months younger than Tony is when he died.'

'Which is why they need you.'

'Oh, yeah, I'm just what they need,' I sneer. 'I'm so fucking useless I couldn't even protect Leigh, so how the hell can I take care of them on my own? Face it, Curly, I'm hardly _world's best dad_ material, am I? At best I'm a second rate criminal, with the temperament to be a deadbeat drunk.'

'Jesus, Tim. Quit being so hard on yourself.' Curly shrugs. 'You did a pretty good job raising me and Ange, didn't you?'

* * *

_**A/N: **Thanks for reading._


	15. Chapter 15

_**A/N: **Thanks to everyone who's reading. If you've read this far then I guess you're already well aware things aren't going well for Tim, but his mental health is increasingly fragile..._

* * *

**Fifteen**

'Daddy, I'm hungry.' Tony appears in the doorway, bouncing from foot to foot.

'Two minutes, buddy. Dinner's nearly ready.' I carry on wrestling a wriggling Grace out of her juice-soaked dress and into the only clean vest I can find that looks about her size, though I reckon I'd probably have an easier job dressing a cat, or an octopus. A vest that now I look at it, with it's blue stripes, looks suspiciously like something that was once Tony's. 'You go wash your hands and it'll be ready.'

I turn my attention back to Grace, add a note to the ever-expanding list of tasks in my head that as well as doing even more laundry, I probably need to find her some new clothes from somewhere, the rate she seems to be growing just lately.

'Daddy!' Tony calls.

'I said I'll be there in a minute, Tony.'

'But, Daddy! It's—'

'Shit!' The stench of burning food hits my nostrils. Leaving Grace sat on the rug, I bolt past him and into the kitchen. Snatching the pan from the hob and gingerly poke at the contents with a spoon. The pasta is blackened, crusted to the bottom of the pan where the water's boiled dry.

Unsaveable. What a fucking mess. The pan sizzles and spits as it hits this morning's dirty dishwater still filling the sink.

Dragging open the fridge, I peer in, in search of some other alternative to offer Tony, before hunger gets the better of him and he throws another tantrum. Not that I find much. That had been the last of the pasta. While the fridge offers not a lot more. A dry looking piece of cheese and two eggs. One slice of bread and a pint of milk. Though if I use all the milk now that means there'll be nothing to put on their cereal in the morning. A trip to the grocery store jumps to the top of my list even though it only feels like yesterday I was last in there.

'How about you go get your sister and I make you two some scrambled eggs instead?'

'But I wanted pasta.' Tony scowls at me. 'You promised we could.'

'I know. Guess I need a bit more practice cooking, eh?' I smile at him, try to make light of it. 'I promise we'll have it tomorrow instead.'

'But I want it now.' He glares at me. 'Mommy never spoiled it.'

'Tony, please.' What can I say? No words I can offer him that can make that aching loss hurt any less. And if I say any more I'll probably only end up losing it too. I crouch down, pull him into a hug.

'Please, Daddy. Don't make me,' he whispers against my shoulder. 'I hate eggs.'

I bite my tongue, stop myself from snapping at him. Because its not his fault I'm so crap at this. Or that he misses his mom so goddamn much. Force myself to choose my words carefully, keep my voice soft. 'Well, okay. How about you go play with your sister and I'll see what else we got.'

As Tony runs back to Grace, and their noisy shrieks echo down the hall, I pull open the cupboard to be met by near-bare shelves. Ma's old pill bottle, the one I lifted from Curly's place, skitters across the shelf as I rummage through the last remaining handful of cans and packets. Cornflour. Creamed corn. Ground almonds. Ingredients that I have neither the skill or knowledge to transform into anything that any sane person would risk eating. Which leaves one bag of potato chips, a pack of chocolate chip cookies. Hardly the kind of dinner Leigh would approve of me giving them.

The lid twists easily off the pill pot and I tilt it, shaking it over my hand. Three small round tablets drop out. The last three. Which can't be right, can it? I can't have taken so many that the jar is empty already. I've had maybe the odd one or two, here or there, to take the edge off. Get me through the long dark hours when the kids are finally asleep and I can't ignore the pain of all my mistakes any longer. I push two back into the jar, swallow the other down.

Though maybe Leigh would laugh it off, make it fun—can see her now, making it some kind of party, tiny drinks served with Grace's toy tea set, or a picnic, a blanket spread across the carpet—and tell me how one night of junk won't hurt them. For a split second I smile at the thought of the three of them, laughing together, Leigh patting the space beside her as she persuades me to join them. Tears sting at my eyes, blurring my vision, but I manage to snatch out the packets and tip the contents into a couple of dishes. At least they'll have full stomachs, and I can get them something decent from the store after work tomorrow, something fresh, some vegetables or fruit. I glance at the calendar hanging beside the phone, at the names my sister pencilled next to each day two weeks ago. This list that controls my fucking life now.

Every day is the same. Get up. Shower. Wake the kids. Feed them, dress them, take them to whoever the goddamned master list tells me is watching them while I go break my back on Curtis's site—before doing it all again in reverse. Collect them, feed them, baths and stories. More chores while they sleep. It was Sylvia today. Sylvia who loves them both like her own, loved Leigh like a sister—and makes no effort to hide quite how much she hates me as soon as the kids are out of earshot.

I screw the lid back on the pill jar and check the calendar again.

At least it's Curly tomorrow.

* * *

Finally, the kids are settled, asleep. I've made a half-assed effort to tidy up the mess of the kitchen, had a shower. Laundry from the hamper to the washer, now tumbling noisily around in the dryer.

Six hours until I need to be up, starting it all over again. I should probably try to sleep.

I hover on the threshold to our bedroom. Or, I suppose, not _ours_ any more. Mine. Even though half the closet, more than half, is filled with Leigh's clothes, and her make up lies untouched on the dresser, between the perfume bottle and small, dark wood jewellery box. A thin sheen of dust already coating them all. Her personality, so many memories, are imprinted on this space.

still can't bear the thought of sleeping in here, alone.

It's fifteen days now since Curly and Angela took it upon themselves to come rescue me from myself. Seventeen since Leigh's funeral, Twenty two days since she...since she's been gone, since I last saw her, spoke to her, held her in my arms...

My hand drifts to the chain around my neck, fingers working and turning her delicate wedding band that these days hangs heavy against my chest.

...Twenty two days where I've not done a single fucking thing to punish the bastard who stole her from me.

I can't sleep in here, without her. Tugging the door shut, I turn on my heel, head into the kitchen and pour myself a large whiskey. Down it in one and fill my glass again. But at least I'm keeping my promise, not drinking in front of the kids. Not getting paralytic. Enough to get me through the pain, help me sleep, help me feel nothing. For an hour or two.

I walk straight past the bedroom, settle down on the couch, pulling the blanket over my legs and sipping at the whiskey, a little slower this time.

It doesn't help.

Ideas of revenge crowd my mind. The same old half-formed, nebulous plans where Brannigan gets what's due, suffers the way Leigh did, the way my family is suffering now. Plans where half the time I don't walk away unscathed, either. But then that'd be a small price to pay, if he gets what he deserves... if I get to be with her again. Not like the kids'd miss me, they'd soon forget, adjust, adapt. Hell, it's plain obvious to everyone they'd be better off without me anyway, the hash I'm making of everything so far. And at least the constant ache in my chest, that feeling that part of me is missing, might actually end. Used to think it was ridiculous, people saying they were heartbroken. Guess I know better now, now my own heart's been ripped out, shattered into a million fragments that can't ever be stuck back together.

I stumble back through the darkness to the kitchen, reach for the tablets again, score one in half with the kitchen knife and slip the sliver of medication into my mouth. Another half won't hurt, might even let me sleep.

* * *

'Morning.' Curly scoops Grace out of my arms at the front door, making her giggle as he contorts his face into a stupid grin, while Tony darts into the lounge, already tipping the ever-growing assortment of toys my brother's acquired for him all across the carpet.

'Morning.' I stride in past Curly, straight through to the kitchen, scanning the pantry shelves.

Nothing. Could have sworn there had been another jar of Ma's meds in here. I reach in, fingers feeling around the dark corners of the shelves.

'You alright?'

I lurch back across the room at the sound of Curly's voice, avoid meeting his eye. ' Fine. Just needed a glass of water.'

Curly raises an eyebrow. 'The glasses aren't in there. They're over by the sink, same as always.'

* * *

I think about popping the last full tablet after I come out the convenience store, before I go back to my brother's. It's never a quick getaway, Curly never has the kids ready, always wanting us to stay for dinner, or at least for me to stay a while, to chat. As unsubtle as a brick as he makes no effort to hide he's checking up on me.

And if there was more left in the jar then I would, but then what if it wears off too quick? I won't get through the night, not without something.

Dropping my groceries into the trunk, I pull away, drive to the edge of town, towards Brumly, crawling through the streets until I spot someone who'll be able to help me out.

A swift exchange, I hand over the cash, an extortionate sum for the six tiny tablets same as Ma's plus three of some other thing he claims'll do the same job, maybe even better. But it isn't like I've got any other choice. No way I'm going to the doctor's office and giving them any ammunition to think I ain't coping, that I'm unfit to be with my kids. And besides, it's not like I actually need the pills, not really. It's only for now. Until I get my head straight.


	16. Chapter 16

**Sixteen**

I stretch out a hand, slap at the alarm clock on the table beside me to silence it. Yawning, I rub at my eyes, stumble from the couch to the kitchen in search of coffee, start the kids' breakfasts and begin everything all over again.

But despite falling into some semblance of a routine, despite going through the motions of work and chores and pretending like I can be anything close to the parent my kids need me to be, life doesn't get any easier. Not even as the days turn into weeks, weeks into months, on and on and on until somehow it's spring and almost four months have passed. Four months where we should've been getting ready for our family to grow to five, not fade away to this hollow half-life.

In the beginning, people used to tell me to give it time, that it'd get easier, if they could bring themselves to say anything about Leigh at all, until somehow barely anyone outside of my family ever even mentions her name. Like they think I want to forget her, or I somehow deserve to be happy again.

And yet, no matter how much booze I drink, or how many pills I swallow, the pain never stops, not for a second.

I take a deep breath, push open the door to the nursery, and plaster a smile onto my face. 'Come on, you two, time to wake up.'

* * *

'She's a real looker, ass like a peach. Great tits.' Gary waves his hands in a crude gesture meant to demonstrate the apparently perfect curves of his bit on the side to Vince as they loiter by the flatbed, doing as little as possible to help me unload the sheets of dry wall.

Vince leans on the tailgate. 'Ain't you worried the wife'll find out?'

Gary laughs, rests his elbows on a box. 'What's she gonna do? Leave me? Beth knows where she's well off, she ain't gonna go nowhere. And besides, it's her fault anyway. If she don't want me to stray then she should be a little bit more accommodating and—'

'Vince, any chance of a hand?' I bark, momentarily interrupting Gary's flow.

Vince nods. Sure, Shep.' He grabs the other end of the sheet, as I slide it off the truck. But Gary doesn't take the hint, follows us inside, and back out again as I stalk across the lawn to pick up the next load, still running his mouth.

Christ. Gary's always been an asshole, but cheating on his wife and bragging to the world about it? The guy ought to be thankful for what he's got, not taking it for fucking granted. I can't—won't—listen to another word of this bullshit.

'How about you shut the fuck up, Gar, and do some actual work for once?'

Gary glowers at me, steps forward, chest puffed out. 'The hell you say, Shep? Last time I checked, Curtis was the boss around here. Not you, not when you only been here five fucking minutes. So crawl back in your hole and keep your big mouth shut.'

'And if I don't?' My arms hang relaxed at my sides, but my fingers flex, balling into fists.

'Gar, just leave it,' Vince murmurs. 'Let's just get on with the job.'

'Why? Shepard's the one with the problem, not me.' Gary smirks at Vince.

'The hell's that s'posed to mean?' I ask, staring him down.

But Gary doesn't back down, carries on talking at Vince like I'm not even here. 'I mean, here's me with two girls on the go, and Shepard's such a loser that he can't even manage to hang onto one.'

'Shut up.' Blood thunders in my ears, my heart racing as I jab a hand against his chest. 'Don't you fucking dare talk about my wife in the same breath as some easy broad you're knocking off.'

But Gary just laughs in my face. 'Oh quit carrying on like you're so fucking perfect. You were hardly the ideal husband either, Shepard. Whole town knows it was only gonna be a matter of time until Leigh would have left you for good anyway, all the crap you were doing behind her back. Only she never got the chance, did she?'

I launch myself at him, go to pin him against the side of the truck. But he sidesteps, swings a punch and catches me square in the face.

Ignoring the blood pouring from my nose, I shove him to the ground, fists swinging, the pain in my knuckles a welcome respite as I focus on nothing but Gary, making him pay for saying that.

'Hey! Break it up!' Strong hands grab my shoulders, pull me off of him. 'Shepard! What the hell?'

I spit blood on the asphalt and shrug at Darrel, while Vince helps Gary sit up.

'Christ. What is this? The fucking schoolyard? How about one of you tell me what the hell you're playing at?' Darrel looks to me, to Gary. Neither of us says a word. He sighs, drags a hand through his hair. 'Vince?'

'Sorry, boss.' Vince squirms under the full force of Curtis' glare, but at least he has the good grace not to open his mouth to drop me in it. 'Didn't see nothing.'

'No. Course you didn't. Get him out of here, clean him up.'

Vince nods, helps Gary limp off towards his car.

I turn away, wipe my bloody hands on my jeans and go to carry on with shifting the materials off of the truck but Darrel blocks my path. 'What the hell, Tim? Are you trying to put me out of business?'

'Guy's a dick. Doesn't know when to keep his big mouth shut.'

'What, so that's how you solve it? Jesus, Tim, I know things aren't easy, and I've tried to be understanding, but this is the third crew I've had to put you with in as many months. Every time it ends in arguing or worse. There's nobody else left who'll work with you and I sure as hell don't need my customers seeing crap like that, thinking all I've got on my payroll is some bunch of cowboys.'

'Yeah? Well how about I make easy for you then? You can screw your job, Curtis, I don't need your goddamn charity.'

* * *

I glance at my watch. Still more than an hour until I'm supposed to be picking the kids up from Angela. No way she'll let it slide if I turn up now. No way she won't see straight through my bullshit if I even attempt to suggest Mr-stick-to-the-rules-Curtis actually let us clock off early.

I drive out towards Brumly, buy more pills, swallow down a couple. But even as the numbness kicks in, Gary's taunts carry on running through my head, playing over and over like a stuck record. Same shit I've been torturing myself with these past months. Same thing everyone else has probably been thinking, only none of them have had the balls to say it to my face.

I need to make it stop.

I take a left, wind through the streets until I'm a block away.

Cops haven't done nothing useful, probably aren't even investigating no more. So it's time I stopped hiding behind having to look after Tony and Grace and get off my ass and do something. Honour the love of my life, no matter what the cost.

I slam the car door, stride across the street and step into the bar, a wall of heat hitting me as the door swings shut on my heels.

'Hey, stranger.' June smiles as she pops the cap on a beer, slides it across to me. 'Been a while.'

'Yeah. Chris around?'

'Out back. In his office.'

'Right.' I grab the beer bottle, knocking back about half the contents by the time I reach the little cubby stuffed with folders overflowing with beer invoices and teetering crates of bottles stacked one on the other that June charitably describes as Chris Lewis's office.

'Tim?' Lewis shuffles through the small gap, claps a hand down on my shoulder. 'How you doing?'

I shrug. 'Been better. You still doing any work with Brannigan?'

'No, man. Jesus, what d'you take me for? Like I told you last time we spoke—'

'Okay, okay,' I interrupt him, not wanting to go there. Sometime in those blurry first weeks, Chris'd shown up, in whatever bar I happened to be drinking in, full of platitudes and condolences, laced with a heavy dose of Catholic guilt, for his part in making my path cross with Brannigan's again. ' I need a favour.'

'Sure, name it. Anything.'

'Any chance I can get some work? Go back to the money collecting again?'

'Thought you had that gig with Curtis?'

'Yeah, only them sort of hours, ain't exactly conducive, what with everything else I'm juggling right now...the kids.' I pick at the label of the empty beer bottle and grin at him. 'And anyway, the pay was lousy.'

'Chris laughs. 'Sure, buddy. You always did have a knavk for making people pay. How about you come by again tomorrow and I'll have all the info ready for you.' He reaches for a bottle of bourbon, pours us a half inch each into a couple of tumblers. 'Welcome back, Shepard.'

'Cheers.' I take a sip, slip my real request in like it's no big deal and I'm not asking anything more unusual than for him to stand me a drink or lend me a couple of bucks. That the only reason I'm asking is 'cause carrying it'll help me play the part of the asshole debt collector more efficiently. 'Oh, and I'll need a gun.'

* * *

A/N: Thank you so much for reading :)


	17. Chapter 17

_**A/N: **If you've read this far then I guess you already know that Tim is in a bad place right now, but he kinda needs to reach rock bottom before he can start fixing things...which means dark themes/thoughts of self-harm are once-again present at times in this chapter..._

* * *

**Seventeen**

There's a tapping on the front door. I ignore it.

The knocking repeats, louder this time, accompanied by the deep rumble of my brother's voice. 'Tim, come on. Open up. I know you're home.'

Scowling, I stalk cross the hall, crack the door open a couple of inches. 'What d'you want, Curly? Imma trying to get the kids settled.'

He grins at me from behind the flat brown box, as the greasy scent of pepperoni and melted cheese wafts in around me. 'Brought you dinner. Figured it'd save you trying to cook.'

'I can manage to make one meal.' I go to shut the door but my brother edges forwards a little, his foot in the door.

'No one's saying you can't,' Curly continues, 'I only thought—'

'Come on, Tim.' Angela's sharp voice cuts over his. 'Open the damn door. It's freezing out here.'

I'm sorely tempted to tell them no, but then I hear Grace toddling down the hall towards me, drawn by the sound of the aunt and uncle she adores, her face lit up into a bright smile as she babbles their names. So I guess I don't have any choice but to let them in. I pull open the door and try not to think about the state of the place.

'Yeah, alright. But no drama, alright? Don't need you getting them all riled up this time of the night.'

* * *

Two hours later, and the kids are finally fed, into pyjamas and settled down in bed.

But my brother and sister are still here, lingering, in the kitchen.

'You need a hand with anything else?' Curly asks, wiping soap suds from his arms, all our dishes and plates and cups from the last god knows how many days sit gleaming on the drainer, as Angela dries and stacks them.

'Nope.' What I need is the two of them gone, some space to be alone with my thoughts, my plans. To have a stiff fucking drink without their judging eyes watching me or the pair of them ganging up on me.

'I don't mind.' He opens cupboards, starts shifting the clean crockery up onto the shelves.

'Leave it, I can do the rest.' My palms feel itchy, I need some air, I need them to leave, to let me get on with the shit I have to do. Tomorrow, Chris promised me. Tomorrow morning he'll have it ready for me to collect—and I'll finally be able to do what I should have done, months ago. 'I can manage.'

'Really?' Angela asks, as she glances towards the cluttered counters and the tangled heap of clean laundry that I haven't gotten around to sorting or folding, while our brother continues with his tidying up.

'What, so I'm a bit behind on the fucking chores. Big fucking deal. I'll catch up at the weekend. Christ, you two have been banging on at every opportunity about how I oughta be spending time with the kids, and now you're bitching at me 'cause I ain't on top of the fucking housework? Well sorry I'm such a fucking failure.'

I storm away, out into the crisp, dark cold of the yard, light a cigarette and count the seconds off in my head as I wait for Curly to creep out to join me. My brother is nothing if not predictable.

Except when the door cracks open two minutes later, it's Angela who appears, cigarette in hand, not Curly.

'You got a light?'

I nod and dip my hand into my jeans pocket, turning the cool metal over in my hand as I hold out the lighter, my thumb flicking the rough wheel until a flame sparks into life.

'Tim, we ain't having a go, I swear.' She cups her hand around the end of the cigarette as she breathes life in to it, the tip glowing red against the darkness.

'Sure you're not,' I sneer.

'Come on. You know what Curly's like, he takes after Ma too much the way he worries about everything.' She takes a drag on her cigarette, exhales deeply sending smoke spiralling up towards the dark skies. 'With good reason, too, I reckon.'

'What in hell's that supposed to mean?'

'Means we care about you.' She stares straight ahead, as she continues speaking. 'Means it's time you moved on.'

'What? You expect me to forget her? Pretend that none of that ever happened? I swear to God, Angela, you are un-fucking-believable—'

'No. Just listen, will you. Course that's not what I mean, But do you really imagine Leigh would want you to still be carrying on like this? Getting wasted or high every damn night of the week?'

'I'm not.' I shove my hands into my jeans pocket, fingers closing around the familiar curve of the pill bottle even as I deny her claims. 'You got it wrong. I don't—'

'Quit with the stories, Tim. We're not idiots. And we're not blind.' Curly appears out the shadows. 'It's plain to anyone you're still drinking too much. And I know you took them old pills of Ma's out the house.'

'And? It was something to get me through those first few weeks, help me sleep. That's all.' I shrug at him, even though I'm burning up inside, a flaming cocktail of shame and anger.

'What, so you're telling us that when they ran out you didn't get nothing else?'

'None of your goddamn business, Curly.'

'Tim, please,' Angela begins, 'we only want—'

'To poke your self-righteous noses in? Tell me everything I'm doing wrong? Well I already know that, so why don't you two go home and leave me the hell alone?'

* * *

'I better get going, don't wanna be late for work.' I turn back down the front path as the kids scamper past Curly and into the house without a backwards glance in my direction.

'Tim, wait.' Curly pads after me, hobbling barefoot over the cracked paving slabs. 'About last night—'

'Don't worry about it. I was being a dick, as per usual.' I drag a hand through my hair. 'But I've been thinking a lot about it. Starting today, I'm gonna change things, I promise.'

'Yeah?' His face cracks into a grin as he claps a hand down on my shoulder. 'That's great, buddy. Anything I can do to help, you just say the word?'

'Sure.' I shrug him off, carry on towards the car, before stopping, hoping I sound casual as I stare down at my boots, scared he'll see right through the charade if I dare to look him in the eye. 'Oh, forgot to say. Might be a bit late tonight, picking them up. We've a big job on right now.'

'For Curtis?' My brother's forehead creases into a frown as I slip into the car, start the engine.

'Yeah. For Curtis.'

* * *

I nurse the bottle between my palms and watch the building. No movement, no one coming or going. But then it's still early, before the regular clientele show up, so it should only be Brannigan inside. Well, not exactly alone. Brannigan doesn't ever go anywhere without his handful of heavies. But that's as close to getting him alone as I'm going to get. Which is good enough.

Popping open the glove compartment, I swap the bottle for the gun, unwrapping it from the oil-stained rag, slipping it into the back of my belt as I climb out the car and saunter across the car park towards the front door. No sneaking in the back, not this time.

The door creaks open, so everyone inside turns to stare at me. Brannigan gets to his feet, raising a hand to stop the two guys beside him from charging at me as he spots the gun in my hand.

I never understood, back then, why Dallas chose the way out that he did. But standing here, a gun pointing at Brannigan's head, and knowing there's no chance I'm walking back out, it all comes sharply into focus. There was never any other way this could end.

* * *

I lurch upright, pain searing through my ribs as I haul myself up onto my feet, towards my car that's somehow here, a hundred or so yards down the road from me, in the middle of fucking nowhere...I had one thing to do, one lousy thing...Turns out I couldn't even do that right.

Every damn step, every single breath is exhausting. Dragging open the car door, I slump down behind the steering wheel, lean my head back and close my eyes for a second, as I try to get a handle on the pain...but somehow that's worse...because all I can hear is Brannigan. Laughing.

Laughing at me as I point the gun, as I hesitate just long enough for him to move, for me to miss the shot and graze his arm, not take him out. No second chance because before I can react he dives across the bar and smashes his fist into my face, his boot into my ribs, over and over and over...a gun in my face as I goad him into giving me what I want and pulling the trigger, not caring any more as I resort to pleading with him, begging for him to make this final...but he shakes his head, his teeth gleaming white against his tanned skin as he looms over me, grinning, kicks me one last time in the head before he walks away.

I slam my swollen, bloodied knuckles against the steering wheel. I used to be tough. Capable. No one ever got anything past me, put one over me, got the better of me. A hard-as-nails hood who didn't give a damn for anyone but himself. The gang leader who everyone listened to, respected...Not any more, not by a long shot...Guess this is what hapoens when I let people in, _allowed myself to __love her_.

* * *

The streets slip by as the sun sets. Buildings begin to appear, one or two, then more and more, closer and crowding on top if each other as the empty nothingness along the road side is squeezed out. And somehow I'm back here, this place filled with nothing but the aching weight of all I've ever lost...too many people, all gone too soon, yet I'm still here, no matter how I might wish for something different.

Stopping the car outside the cemetary gates, I stumble out, unsteady on my feet as I search for her in the darkness, the tiny glimmer of hope that we might be reunited driving me on. Weaving across the carefully-tended grass, I find her in the crowds, kneel down to trace my finger tips across her name..._Leigh Shepard, beloved wife, mother, daughter_...fresh letters etched in the soft white stone, pristine compared to it's weathered neighbour..._Frank O'Connell, much-loved father of Leigh_. Christ. Frank made it plain, that first afternoon as he grilled me in their lounge, that he was sure I'd never be good enough for Leigh. He was right too. Though maybe if he had still been alive he'd have talked her out of marrying me. Stopped her ruining her life. Stopped me from destroying everything...

Pulling the gun from my belt and the bottle from my inside pocket, I sink down onto the damp grass, hissing in a sharp breath as pain rips through my ribs, though it's not a patch on the agony of the memory of _that_ day. Watching that asshole gun down my wife. Or the image of Brannigan laughing in my face. Twisting off the cap, I take another slug of whiskey, let it burn through my gut, into my soul.

'I'm sorry.' My voice sounds alien, a cracked whisper. 'I fucked up, couldn't even do this right. You deserved so much better.'

Hands shaking, I pop the lid off of the pill jar, gulp a handful down with another mouthful of booze, shake another half-dozen painkillers into my palm, and repeat another teo times.

'I miss you, so damn much, I—' my words are swallowed up as grief and loss and pain overwhelm me and hot, angry tears streak my cheeks. My shoulders convulse, sending the last few pills skittering to the ground. 'Shit!' I begin fumbling around, trying to retrieve them, but it's a lost cause, so tiny they've disappeared into the darkness.

I take another gulp from the bottle, my eyes drawn to the gun. Picking it up again, I study it, the weight reassuring in my hand. Maybe this is my answer. I lift it higher. The barrel is cold against my temple. Pretty sure even I couldn't miss from here, no matter how bad my hand shakes.

The gun slips from my fingers, landing with a soft thud by my feet. Laughter echoes through the air, and it isn't until it stops I realise its my own voice. I take another swig, and let the soft warmth of the medication and booze wrap tighter around me. I want to sleep. Sleep and never wake up.

* * *

Rough hands grab at my shirt, shaking my shoulders. Someone, somewhere, is calling my name.

'Tim! Get up! Wake up!'

The voice sounds so distant through the haze of my drug-fuelled sleep. Half-heartedly, I try to push them away but they don't stop, won't let me rest.

A hand slaps my face, cold and hard as my brother yells at me. How is he here? Why can't he leave me in peace? But he shakes me again, backwards and forwards, again and again, until I beg him over and over to stop.

'For God's sake, Tim? What about Tony, Grace? You can't do this to them! They need you, we all do! Stop being so damn selfish and stay awake. Stay with me!'

Maybe it's not too late for me, after all, maybe I do have a reason to carry on.

Because now I see it. The intensity of how much I love my kids is more powerful than the agonising pain of losing Leigh. _They need me, _and that has to be worth living for, no matter how hard, _how impossible_, my life feels right now.

* * *

_**A/N: **A huge thank you to anyone who's still reading this..._


	18. Chapter 18

**Eighteen**

'Drink this.' Someone—Angela—forces a bottle against my lips, tilts it to pour the thick, syrupy liquid into my mouth.

Retching, I push her hand away. 'Jesus, what the hell is that? It's disgusting.'

She scowls, pushes the brown glass bottle back into my shaking hands.

'Ipecac.' Angela says, with a heavy sigh. 'And it's supposed to be awful. That's the whole point. Should make you sick enough that you'll throw up whatever shit you've taken. It's this or the hospital, Tim. And you think those doctors won't call a social worker when they see the state of you? Not when they find out you're supposed to be responsible for two kids? So damn well drink it, Tim. All of it. Unless you actually want them sent to some foster home?'

Her words hit me like a slap in the face. I can't lose them too. I take a deep breath, down the oily concoction in one, scrambling across the bathroom to hunch over the toilet bowl as wave after wave of nausea rolls through my body.

* * *

Sunlight burns my eyes. Last thing I remember was being slumped on the cold tiles of the bathroom floor. But now, somehow, I'm in my childhood bedroom, the one I used to share with my brother, in the narrow bed I used to sleep in. My shoes have been tossed in the corner, but other than that I'm still dressed. My t-shirt reeks of stale sweat mixed with the acidic stench of vomit. I shift a little, pain tearing through my aching stomach muscles as I drag the stinking shirt over my head. Dropping it to the floor, I slump back against the lumpy pillow, exhausted by this tiny amount of exertion, pulling the covers up around me. The blanket is scratchy and rough against my clammy skin, but I tug it up over my head, shivering uncontrollably despite how much I'm sweating.

* * *

Next time I open my eyes, the bright light of the afternoon is gone, replaced by the dusky haze of evening.

Groaning, I struggle to sit up, suddenly aware that I'm not alone.

'How long you been sitting there?'

'Long enough.' Angela peels herself out of the chair pushed into the shadows. Crossing the room, she perches on the edge of the bed and presses the back of her hand to my forehead.

I cringe, the embarrassment at having my little sister babysit me—again—crushing down on me. It should be the other way around. I'm supposed to be the strong one, the one who takes care of them. But I'm pathetic, a mess, can't take care of myself, much less my family— I push her hand away, gasping for breath as I attempt to keep a lid on the rising panic bubbling through me, the sheets tangling around me as I try to get up, a dim memory of last nights conversation, the idea that someone might take them too, seeping into my brain like poison. 'Where're my kids?'

'They're fine. I swear.' She rests a hand on my shoulder. 'Drink this.' She lifts something from the nightstand, offers me a glass.

I take it, but hesitate to taste it after last night's offering.

Angela laughs, a hard, bitter sound, devoid of any humour. 'Relax, it's nothing bad, only water. So drink it, then get some more sleep. Then we can start making everything better.'

'Right.' Trying to ignore the tremor in my hand, I take the smallest imaginable sip, barely even wetting my lips, not keen to risk throwing up again.

* * *

I don't know how many hours I've been asleep for, but somehow it's daylight again.

My sister's gone, her spot now taken by a stack of clean clothes—mine by the looks of things, collected from home by her or Curly—neatly folded on top of a fresh towel. Though despite her absence, Angela isn't far away, her voice muffled by the paper thin walls, so that I can't make out her words, just her tone.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed, and slowly get to my feet, standing unmoving for a second or two as I wait to see whether the room'll start spinning. I go to take a step forwards, but I'm unsteady, my legs weak, like I haven't used them in days. Hell, maybe I haven't, because right now I have no clue how long it is since Curly hauled me back here from the cemetery. I scratch at the back of my head, fingers snagging in matted hair. Maybe a shower would be good.

* * *

Angela's waiting for me when I eventually emerge from the bathroom. Arms folded, she fixes me with an icy stare. 'Right, now you're up it's time for us to talk,' she snaps. Not giving me any opportunity to object, she grabs my arm, ushers me down the hall and into the lounge.

'Tim! Good to see you, man.' Curly's face cracks into a grin as he bounces up from the couch, about to pull me into a bear hug—until Angela steps between us, blocking his path.

'Curly, sit down. Remember what we talked about, what we agreed?'

His face falls, but he nods, slinks back to the couch. Angela points to the armchair, tells me to sit too, as she settles herself down next to our brother. Two against one.

I want to argue, tell her no, that I don't need a fucking lecture 'cause I'm already well aware I'm a screw up. Except I don't have the energy to fight her right now, so I follow Curly's example and meekly do as she says. Quicker she says her piece, the sooner this'll be over. Least that's what I tell myself.

'So how you feeling?' Curly asks, his knee bouncing with nervous energy.

I shrug, not sure how to answer that and the three of us fall back into uneasy silence. Curly fidgets, unable to sit still, like he's the one about to get grilled, not me, while Angela never takes her eyes off of me, a hawk watching it's prey as it waits for the moment to attack—and when she does finally speak, she doesn't go easy on me.

'Did you mean to do it? Were you actually trying to kill yourself?'

'Angela!' Curly hisses, his mouth a wide 'O'—as shocked by her direct question as I am.

'What?' She glares at Curly. 'We talked about this. We need to know the truth, because how can we help him otherwise?'

'But you didn't have to ask like that!' Curly picks at a loose thread on the arm of the couch. 'How is that helping?'

'Jesus, Curly, you promised you'd do this my way. The time for pussyfooting around is over, don't you think? We tried that these past few months and look where that got us. Right here, dealing with this mess.' Angela jabs her hand in my general direction.

I shuffle forwards in my chair as they continue bickering, eventually resorting to a loud cough to get their attention. 'I'm sat right here, y'know, so how about the pair of you quit talking about me like I ain't in the room? Where're Tony and Grace?' I demand, suddenly uneasy. The house is too quiet for them to be here. What if someone did find out what I did, what if they've taken them away from me after all? What if they never let me see them—I'm breathing too fast, and my voice is getting louder, but I don't care, I have to know. 'Where the hell are my children?'

'At Sylvia's.'

'Right.' I take a deep breath, as my panic ebbs away. 'You tell her what I...' I falter, unable to say the words, my cheeks burning. 'Where you found me?'

'Course not!' Curly exclaims,like he's disappointed I've even had to ask. 'Said you were sick, knocked off your feet with that flu that's been going around. That me and Ange were struggling to get enough time outta work to babysit. She offered for them to stay a couple days, her idea, she said it'd be easier than them dragging backwards and forwards all the time.'

'I'll go fetch them.' I glance around as I get to my feet, suddenly aware that I have no clue where my keys are—or my car for that matter. That I should probably go find my shoes. 'Can I borrow your car?'

Curly nods, drags his keys out of his jeans pocket, and holds them out to me.

But before I can take them, Angela snatches them away, slips them into her own pocket, out of sight. 'No, Tim. They'll be in bed now so you're not going to go dragging them out of there, half asleep. Sylvia'll drop them back in the morning. Tonight you talk to us. So quit stalling and answer my goddamn question. Did you mean to do it?'

'The hell am I supposed to say to that?' I turn towards the window, as my skin prickles with shame, and a hard lump forms in my throat threatening to choke me. My voice is hoarse, barely more than a whisper when I do eventually get the words out. 'I've fucked everything up. Couldn't take care of Leigh, or hold down a decent job. Probably lose the house pretty soon 'cause I won't be able to make rent. Can't get through a single day without pills or booze, 'cause without it, everything hurts too goddamned much.' I rub at my forehead, pinch the bridge of my nose. Turning to face them, I catch my sister's eye and shrug. 'But even if I could hold it all together, it won't make a difference. Because whatever I do, it'll never be enough, not when all Tony and Grace really need is the one thing I can't possibly give them: their mom. So yeah, the other night, ending it seemed like my only option.'

Curly's face is ashen, as he sits, unmoving.

'I didn't believe it at first, figured Curly must've got it all wrong. But he didn't, did he? You really did want to die.' Angela launches herself across the room at me, her steely composure crumbling as she flares with anger, pounds her fists against my chest. 'How could you, Tim? How could you think that? Why would you do something so stupid? So selfish?'

I do nothing, just let her carry on berating me, because what can I say? She's right. I am an idiot. A self-centred jerk consumed by my grief, overwhelmed by guilt.

'Ange, stop.' Curly rests a hand on her shoulder, gently pulls her away. 'Giving Tim a hard time, blaming him and making him feel even worse, ain't gonna help, is it?'

'Fine.' Ange sniffs, looks up at me with glassy eyes. 'But you got to get help. Properly. Go talk to someone, see a doctor.'

'Oh, sure,' I sneer. 'I can't pay my bills, so how the hell can I afford to pay some therapist?'

'Well if you won't do that, then talk to us, or go to AA, NA, whatever it takes to get you better.' She reaches out, a hand on each arm as she challenges me. 'Say it, say you'll do it. That you'll quit drinking and taking the pills. That you won't end up like Ma, just a shell of yourself. Because we all know that was worse than her not being here at all. Promise me, Tim.'

* * *

I glance at my watch, drum my fingers against the tabletop. 'Where the hell are they?'

Curly peers up at the clock, grins at me. 'Quit worrying. They'll be here soon, ain't even nine yet.' He yawns as he pours himself a coffee, laying slice after slice of bread on the grill pan while he hums along to the radio.

'So what'll you do? About the house?' Curly asks, still focused on his breakfast preparations.

'Dunno.' I turn my cup between my hands, looking up from the newspaper clipping Angela's left out for me. A list of AA groups, the ones she thinks I could get to circled in red ink, the next one tomorrow. 'Find somewhere smaller, cheaper, I guess. Not sure anyone'll rent to me though, when I don't have any money coming in. So maybe I should be concentrating on fixing that first.'

'So you aren't upset? That you might have to move out of there?'

My mind drifts, filled with memories of the happy times I spent there..._the day we moved in, me scooping Leigh into my arms, the pair of us laughing as I'd carried her over the threshold, like something out of an old movie...Leigh sitting on the bed, wide eyed and uncertain as she tells me that I'm gonna be a father for the first time...bringing Tony home from the hospital, so tiny, so perfect...then blessed again with Grace...how much she loved them both..._

'Course I am.' I force myself to smile at him, hope he won't notice—or, if he does, that he won't comment on—the fake bravado that doesn't quite disguise the hitch in my voice or the tears pricking at my eyes. 'But staying there won't bring Leigh back, will it?'

Curly nods, stands silent for a minute or two, as he drags a knife backwards and forwards spreading butter.

'You know you could always come back and live here.' Curly slides a plate, laden with buttered toast, across the table towards me, gestures for me to take some. 'I mean, it wouldn't have to be for ever. But there's plenty room for you and the kids. And we could cover the bills between us. Mean you could get by on a part time job, still be around for the kids.'

''Won't Claire have something to say about that?' I lift a half-slice, try not to gobble it down in one mouthful, despite the growling of my stomach, suddenly ravenous as it hits me it must be days since I last ate a proper meal.

'We broke up.' My brother frowns into his coffee cup.

'What?' I rack my brains, unable to remember when she was last around. 'When did that happen?'

'A couple weeks back. She moved back to her mom's place. Wasn't happy about the amount of time I was spending...how busy I was' he stops abruptly, pushes his hair out of his eyes.

'Shit, Curly, why didn't you tell me?' Christ, another thing I've fucked up, because we both know the only thing that's been keeping Curly from spending time with his girl is all the time he's had to put into caring for my kids, bailing me out. 'You should've told me.'

'You were kinda preoccupied.'

'Doesn't matter. You still should've said something. I thought you were real serious about her?'

'Yeah, well, don't need to be with some chick who don't get the importance of family, do I?' He downs the last of his coffee, smiles as the front door clicks open, and the voices of my children flood the house. 'Come on, they're here.'

He's on his feet, heading to greet them. I hang back, because I still can't shut out that nagging voice that whispers that they're better off without me, and Christ, if I had pills now, I'd pop them, down a shot of something in an instant—anything to take the edge off and stop me feeling like this.

'Hey, buddy!' Curly's ruffling Tony's hair, but for once my boy doesn't linger with him.

Instead, he's pushing past, thrusting a slightly crumpled sheet of paper at me, daubed with the bright colours of wax crayons. 'Daddy, look! Me and Grace, we made this, for you.'

I crouch down beside Tony, my hand trembling. As I take the picture from him, the corners of his mouth lift into a smile, momentarily knocking the air from my lungs at how much he resembles Leigh.

'So do you like it?' Tony asks, dark eyes fixed on me as he gnaws at his bottom lip, points towards the stick figures. 'It's me and Gracie. See. Then there's you and over there, that's Mommy. Auntie Sylvie says Mommy's still loves us, from up in heaven.'

Grace toddles over, chubby fingers grabbing at my knee to steady herself as she chatters away to me while I study this picture Tony's so proud of. My pulse is racing, my chest is tight. I can't do this.

'Tim?' My brother reaches down, pats my shoulder. 'It's good, isn't it?'

'Yeah, it's great, buddy, well done.' And as I watch my boy's face lights up when he hears me, I know I've made the right choice. No matter how hard this is gonna be, this is where I belong.

* * *

_**A/N:** Thanks for reading_


	19. Chapter 19

**Nineteen**

_1985..._

'Hey, sweetheart, good day at school?'

Grace shrugs, head down over the mess of school books spread across the kitchen table. 'It was fine.'

I rest a hand on the back of her chair, peer down at the text book pages filled with incomprensible graphs and complicated diagrams. 'What you working on?' I ask, hoping she don't want me to help, because I don't have the first clue where to start with this.

'Science,' Grace mutters, her pen scratching across the page.

'Your brother home?' I ask, even though I reckon that's unlikely, given there's no music blaring down from upstairs, shaking the paper-thin walls.

'No.'

'He knows he's supposed to be in by now on a school night. You got any idea where he's at?'

Her shoulders twitch up again as she finally looks up at me, her lips curling into a grin. 'Yeah, sure, as if he'd tell _me_. Probably off trying to impress Casey or Kelly or whichever airhead cheerleader he's got the hots for this week.'

* * *

For the fifth time in the last ten minutes I check my watch. Three minutes to eleven and I'm getting twitchy.

Pacing back and forth from the kitchen to the lounge, I grab my car keys, on the point of going to try track him down. Not that I've got the first idea where to try. It's not as though Tony shares much with me these days, and I can't exactly disappear anyway, can't leave Grace here in the house alone, at this time of night, and it's hardly fair to drag her out in the car with me, either, not when she's most probably already sleeping.

I sink back down onto the couch, check my watch again. Maybe I'm overreacting. It isn't the first time Tony's chanced his luck and stayed out well past his curfew, and its not as if I wasn't doing far worse than coming home late when I was his age—but it's the first time he's pushed me this far. Coming up on fifteen and already thinks he knows everything.

There's a knock on the door, and relief hits me as I recognise the figure outlined through the glass is my boy. Not that it lasts long, by the time I'm down the hall, dragging open the door I'm back to angry again.

'The hell time you call this? Bad enough you're rolling home now. You better not've lost your damn key as well, Tony.'

Tony glares up at me, chin jutting forward in defiance, his face bloodied and bruised, but it's not him that speaks.

'Mr Shepard?' A cop steps out of the shadows to the side of him asks, not releasing his grip on my son's arm.

'What's going on? Tony? The hell've you been—?'

'Yeah, yeah,' Tony sneers. 'Should've known you'd assume it was all my fault. You always do.' Shaking free of the cop's grip, Tony lurches forward, shoulder knocking into me as he barges into the house, bolts up the stairs.

'Kids eh?' The cop rolls his eyes as Tony's bedroom bangs shut, before giving me all the details of why exactly my boy has been picked up and delivered home. 'We'll let him off with a warning, this time. But if he gets caught up in anything again, then we'll be looking at taking things further...' The cop shrugs, the threat of potential punishment hanging heavy in the air as he turns to leave.

* * *

'Daddy?' Grace peers out at me from her bedroom doorway, eyes bleary. 'Is Tony—' the rest of her words unintelligible as they're swallowed up in a yawn.

'He's fine, sweetie, go back to sleep.'

She nods, retreats back into her room. Waiting until she's climbed back into her bed, I pull her door closed then cross the landing where I rap my knuckles softly against Tony's door, resisting the urge to blunder straight in.

'Go away.'

'Not gonna happen, buddy. Reckon you and me need a talk, don't you?'

'Fine! Whatever!' he snaps back, not exactly an invitation to join him, but definitely less of an argument than I'm expecting.

'So, you want to tell me your version of events?'

'What's the point, you won't believe me anyway.' He's lying on top of the covers, back towards me as he faces the poster-covered wall.

'You keep going on about how I should treat you like an adult? Then how about you act it?' I ask, harsher than I mean to, 'cause getting him even more wound up isn't gonna help me deal with this. It's these times I miss Leigh more than usual, more than seems possible after all this time, 'cause I'm pretty sure she'd say exactly the right thing, get him to open up. But then maybe, if she was still a part of our lives, he wouldn't feel the need to act out every damn opportunity he gets.

But he doesn't even tell me to get lost, or that he hates me, or that there's no way a loser like me could understand. He ignores me.

'Come on, Tony.' I cross the room, perch on the edge of his bed beside him. 'Tell me what happened, why in hell you're getting dragged home by the cops. You think it's funny? You reckon getting a record or being sent off to reform school will be some big joke, something to brag about to your buddies?'

'What's the big deal?' He twists to look at me as he speaks, giving me my first real close up of his injuries. Split lip, black eye, gash above his eye. 'You did, and Uncle Eddie too. He told me you was only thirteen the first time they locked you up, and you made it out, no sweat.'

'Oh yeah? He tell it like that did he? Make it sound as if it was something to be proud of?' Because if he did, then I reckon I need to have a few words with my idiot brother too, next time I see him.

Tony huffs out a deep breath, eventually shakes his head.

'No. Didn't think so.' I pat his shoulder, get to my feet. 'Now come on, you need to get those cuts cleaned up, 'fore they get infected.'

Following me across to the bathroom, Tony perches on the edge of the tub while I rake through the contents of the wall cabinet, searching out cotton wool, antiseptic.

'Don't see why you're so worked up. It was one lousy fight, Dad. Asshole shouldn't've said that crap.'

'No, _you_ should've ignored it. Not let some punk get a rise outta you.'

Tony rolls his eyes at me and looks about as impressed as my teenage self would have, if anyone had tried to feed me that line back when all that mattered to me—all I had to lose—was my reputation. 'Oh sure, Dad, and have everyone saying I'm some pussy. He started it, opening his big mouth, saying shit.'

'And who threw the first punch?'

'The jerk deserved it.'

'So you keep telling me. But I thought you were smarter than that?' Tony winces as I press the soggy, antiseptic-soaked cotton wool to his cheek, swiping away the dried blood. 'Jesus, Tony. You're a bright kid, got your whole life ahead of you. But you keep doing this shit, get a reputation at school as a troublemaker, earn yourself a record, wind up in the reformatory? You know that's not the smart choice.'

'You ain't done so bad.'

'Yeah? I ain't done so good either.' I toss the pink-tinged wad into the waste basket, grab a fresh ball from the packet and set to work on the gash above his eyebrow. 'You think when I was your age that all I wanted outta life was to be working in a place like Bennett's hardware store for the rest of my days? That it's my dream job? That—' I bite my tongue, don't say out loud that thing that still haunts me constantly... _if I'd been a better person, then you and your sister would still have your mom...that Leigh would be here, and we'd be together, happy— _

'Why do it then? If you hate it so much?'

'Why d'you think? Pays the bills. And...' I smirk, mussing up his hair. 'Keeps you in hair gel.'

'Dad!' He pushes my hand away, but his protest is half-hearted, accompanied by the slightest of grins, so perhaps he is actually listening.

I peel the wrapper from an Elastoplast, tape it across Tony's forehead despite his protestations that he doesn't need it and it'll make him look ridiculous. But as he sits there scowling at me, all it does is make me realise how much of a kid he still really is. How much I don't want him to make the same mistakes I did. 'Back when I was your age, I used to imagine I was so tough, that I was untouchable, invincible. But that ain't true, Tony. Everything choice you make, every wrong turn, they all add up, have consequences that can change your whole life.'

* * *

'Hey, you sure you're doing alright?' My sponsor, Otis, appears beside me, grabs the next chair from this final row to fold away and add to the growing pile at the back of the church basement.

'Sure.' I keep my head down, carry on working. 'Why wouldn't I be?'

'Getting your eight year chip, is supposed to be a good thing, right?'

'I guess.' Folding the last two chairs, I stride away, heaving them on to the top of the stack, then turning towards the stairs. Need to get out, get some air.

'You not having a good week?' Otis flicks off the lights, starts following me out. 'You didn't have nothing you needed to share with the group?'

I shrug. 'I'm fine.'

Normally, usually, a meeting helps me. Just by being in that room, the reassurance and familiarity of the routine. But these so-called milestones that I'm supposed to feel good about, on top of all that shit with Tony lately, school ringing me, him more interested in chasing girls or staying out late these days? Feels like everything is exhausting, and pointless.

But Otis doesnt let me off that easy, has known me long enough now to know I'm not giving him the whole story. 'Hang on. How about we grab a coffee?'

'Not tonight. The kids—'

'—'ll be just fine. It's not even seven, and you, being well, is more important than you being ten minutes later than you told 'em. They ain't babies no more, Tim. You need to trust them a bit. You be too hard on 'em, they're gonna leave home the first chance they get.'

And with that we're crossing the street, slipping into a booth in the half-empty diner. Otis sits quietly, as the waitress fills our coffee cups, as I heap three spoons of sugar in, swirl the spoon round and round in the thick dark liquid.

'Stir that any more, you'll make a hole in it.' Otis grins, his remaining teeth yellowing from all the years smoking. 'So what's eating at you, Tim? Eight years sober, you should be proud yourself.'

'I am.' After a few stumbles and false starts that first couple of years, when the need for a drink overwhelmed me, after nights wiped out and me waking up no idea where I was, or who was watching my kids, somehow something clicked. So this time, somehow, I've managed eight years, without a drink. Without a pill or a joint or a line of anything to take the edge off.

'You sure about that?' Otis leaves his question hanging.

'Me being eight years sober, means it's close to ten since...' I turn the cup round in my hands, take a sip, then stare at the window for a few minutes at the deserted street while Otis waits, watches. 'Means sonehow Leigh's been gone longer than we were together. Kids don't barely remember her, my friends now mostly never even met her, let alone knew her. Then on top of that, my brother's on some non-stop crusade to set me up with someone else. Keeps telling me I can't keep living in the past forever.'

'And what do you think?'

I shrug at him, take another gulp of luke-warm syrupy coffee. 'I dunno. I mean, its not like I've been living like no priest all these years, there's been other girls. Only every time it feels like things might get more serious then I back out, break it off. Even now, it feels so wrong.'

Otis raises an eyebrow.

'Yeah, I know. Pathetic, ain't it?'

'Nah, Tim. When you're ready to move on, you'll know. But 'til then you gotta do what you need to keep yourself well, be there for them kids of yours.'

* * *

'Was beginning to think you'd got lost.' My brother smiles up at me, from where he's sprawled on my couch, watching my TV. Grace is curled up beside him, and Tony's slouched in the armchair, eyes glued to the noisy sitcom on the screen, canned laughter echoing around the room. 'Where you been?'

'Meeting.'

'Another one? Didn't you go Wednesday already?'

My brother, he doesn't get it, doesn't understand why I still go after all these years, because in his eyes I don't have a problem, wasn't ever really an addict, notlike Ma with all her pills. And I wasn't some long-term drunk same as that asshole she married after Dad died either. So Curly doesn't understand why can't I go back to how I was and have a beer with him now and then, with the guys after work, or a drink or two with dinner, then leave it alone? And maybe he's right, and I could be that guy. But what if, deep down, I do take after Ma? So a shit day turns one beer into three...three into five...sends me hunting for something stronger? Then what happens as things spiral out of control? Me yelling at the kids, belting them for no reason other than being home at the wrong time? Them coming home to find me lying on the bathroom floor in a pool of my own vomit, no money for food or rent or anything else 'cause I spent my pay packet on booze?

'Yeah, Curly. Again.' I snap, harder than I mean to 'cause Grace and Tony both momentarily tear their eyes away from the TV to look at me.

'You sure you're okay?' Curly asks, sitting upright, his expression suddenly serious. Just what I don't need, him making a big deal about this in front of Tony and Grace.

'I'm fine. A bit tired is all, and hungry.' I pinch the bridge of my nose, divert the conversation with talk of food. 'You guys eaten already, or d'you wanna order pizza?'

* * *

'Finally! I'm starving.' Tony moans, as the doorbell rings. 'Thought they were never gonna get here.'

Opening my wallet, I hand him a couple of notes. 'Go pay then.'

He darts away down the hall, as Grace continues to tell me all about some drama that took place in her history class this morning.

'Dad!' Tony calls. 'Can you come out here. Now.'

'What's the matter?' I ease myself up off the couch and head towards him. 'You need more cash? Thought that should've been enough to cover it.'

'No, Dad, it ain't the pizza guy, it's—'

'Mr Shepard?'

'Yeah.' My blood turns to ice in my veins. He might not be wearing a uniform, but it's obvious from his tone, his stance, as he stands there smiling on our front step, that this guy's a cop. So much for Tony listening to me, or that grounding him this past week might actually make any difference. 'What's the problem, officer? My boy hasn't been in any more trouble, and I was led to believe that business last week was done and dusted. So if—'

'Mr Shepard, please. It's nothing to do with your son. But I need to have a word with you.' He glances at Tony, then past him, where my daughter stands peering round the lounge door at us, my brother behind her. 'In private.'

Nodding, I step out onto the porch, closing the door behind me. 'So, if it's not about my son, then what is it?'

The detective takes a quick glimpse left and right, at the a gaggle of noisy kids hanging around on the sidewalk, and my neighbours loitering on their porch, clearly pretending to chat when really they're watching us, hoping they get to witness some drama. 'Perhaps we should go inside?'

'No. Perhaps you need to tell me what this about first.'

'Well okay, if you insist.' He rubs a hand across his chin. 'I'm sorry, I know it must be a shock after all this time. But some new evidence has recently come to light connected to the death of your wife.'

* * *

_A/N: Thanks for reading :)_


	20. Chapter 20

**Twenty**

I stand on the porch and stare at the cop. Not sure what to say, or do. There's movement around me: the gawky teenager clutching our pizza order, Tony and Grace bickering as my brother hands over the cash, but it's like I'm frozen to the spot, or having some out of body experience. Because while I'm physically here amongst them, in my head I'm at the park, surrounded by the sound of gunshots, screaming, squealing tires, a hundred and one memories and emotions all crushing down on me as I relive the minute my world changed forever.

Someone tugs at my hand. Grace. 'Dad? Did you hear me? I asked if you're coming in for dinner too? Before Tony wolfs down the whole lot?'

I pinch at the bridge of my nose. 'You go ahead. I'll be right behind you. Promise.' I force an unconvincing smile onto my face and send her back down the hall, towards my brother who's loitering a few feet away.

'Tim? You okay?' Curly pads back towards me, stony faced. 'There some sort of problem? You need me out here?'

'No. Everything's—' I can't say _fine_. Not when I feel like I've been sucker punched. 'Just do me a favour and keep the kids out the way.'

'Why? What's wrong?' He's starting to sound panicked, gabbling his words. 'Please tell me you're not in some kind of trouble—'

'No, Mr Shepard, there's not a problem.' The cop smiles as holds out his hand and shakes my brother's hand. 'Sergeant Peterson. I simply need to talk to your brother. It'll only take a few minutes of his time.'

Curly looks between me and the detective, but doesn't budge.

'Mr Shepard?' Peterson asks me. 'Five minutes of your time, that's all I'm asking.'

'Yeah, alright.' I nod at Peterson, gesturing for him to follow me. 'I suppose you better come in.'

* * *

'So what exactly is it you think you've found out?' I ask, offering Peterson a seat at the table as I push the kitchen door shut behind him. 'And what's it got to do with Leigh?'

He drags the chair out, it's legs scraping across the linoleum, and sits down. 'It came up through another investigation I've been working. One of the people being charged offered up the information, claimed he was in the vehicle and could tell me where to find the gun that was used.'

'Right.' I lean back against the counter and fold my arms, trying to curb the urge to hit something as my emotions threaten to overwhelm me. 'So some scumbag asshole wants to trade on what happened to Leigh and you believe him? How d'you know he's not telling you a whole load of bull 'cause he thinks he'll get a couple of years off his sentence?'

'It's a possibility.' The cop acknowledges. 'But if his story is true, it gives us some traction on being able to take someone far more important—and dangerous—out of the picture. '

'So if you've got all that evidence already why do you need to talk to me?'

'Because at the moment, it's his word against his boss. Even with the gun, there's not any actual proof which one of them pulled the trigger. Which is why I'm here. I want you to tell me exactly what happened that afternoon, in case there's anything, no matter how small that might—'

'I gave my statement at the time,' I interrupt. 'What makes you think I'll have anything different to say now, after all these years?'

Peterson leans forwards in his seat and rests his clasped hands on the table. 'I don't expect you remember me, no reason why you would given what happened. But I was there, that afternoon. Three weeks on the job, and me and my partner get a call, go and investigate reports of gunfire near the kids play area. Thought it was going to be nothing. Kids messing with an air rifle or something. Not—'

Another image creeps in, the young, baby faced uniform cop, standing beside me and urging me to go in the ambulance.

'Yeah, I remember you. Should've realised you were new on the job.' I laugh, but it's a cold, hard sound, devoid of any humour. 'Wouldn't have been stood there calling me Sir if you weren't.'

'Was the first shooting incident I ever...' Peterson is pale, serious. 'Well let's just say, I never forgot what I saw that day so I can't even begin to imagine how horrendous it must've been for you, having your family ripped apart like that. No one deserved that. And I guess it stuck with me, how I wished they caught the bastard who did that.'

'Yeah, well, I doubt your bosses back then put much effort into finding anyone. Not with my past. I'm hardly someone the cops gave a fuck about helping. Pretty sure that as soon as they heard my name they wrote of off as fallout from gang turf wars. That detective who was supposedly investigating couldn't care less about Leigh. Didn't see her as anything more than collateral damage, probably thought she deserved it for being stupid enough to get tangled up with some gangbanger in the first place.'

'We're not all like that, Mr Shepard.' Peterson shakes his head. 'Not all cops are looking for the easy option, some of us are actually interested in the truth. So when I made detective, I went back over the files, kept going back to them, in the hope that there'd be some detail that'd been missed or something new would turn up. And now it has.'

I shake my head, not sure I really believe him. 'I'm sorry, I can't help you.'

'I know you've got a record, Mr Shepard. And I'm no idiot, I realise that you were involved in shit back then, that what happened wasn't some freak, random accident. But I don't care about that. I'm not looking to go after you for things you may or may not have done ten years ago. What I want is to take Mitch Brannigan down, once and for all. And I think there's a chance you can help me do it. Figured you would want to.'

Hearing him actually say Brannigan's name, here in my house, sets my nerves jangling all over again. My heart races as my skin crawls and burns. I recognise that all-too familiar sensation, the need for something—anything—to shut it out, to numb my emotions, to not feel anything. I reach for a cigarette, go to pull my lighter from my pocket, but my fingers close around my eight-year chip instead. I don't know that I could trust myself if there was drink in the house right now...

'I understand.' Peterson's voice breaks through, bringing my attention back on to him. 'How maybe you didn't want to speak out at the time. You'd lost your wife, had the rest of your family to think about, and pointing the finger at someone like Brannigan would've been too big a risk.'

'So why d'you think I'd want to rake it all up again, now? My kids are settled, we're getting by, doing okay. Why would I want to put them through anything else, make them relive all that?'

'Might give you some sense of closure, justice. Whatever the rights and wrongs of what went down I'm pretty sure your wife wasn't to blame, that she didn't deserve what happened. Neither did your kids. So why not make the bastard pay?' He shrugs as he gets to his feet, shakes my hand and then passes me his card. 'Look, Mr Shepard, I get this is a lot to process, a big decision, but I hope you'll make the right choice. So if you think of anything you think'll help, then ring me. Any time.'

* * *

The title music for _Magnum, PI _is blaring out from the television. I should be going in there, grabbing the last cold slice and making the most of Grace and Tony both actually being here, wanting to hang out at home on a Saturday night for once.

Instead, I busy myself making coffee, chain smoking my way through one cigarette after another as I wait for the water to boil before heading outside, sitting on the back step where I carry on working through the rest of my pack of smokes until the carton's empty.

I rest an elbow on my knees, my head in my hands and close my eyes.

The door creaks open, guess it's time to stop wallowing and pull myself together, or Curly'll be fussing around me all damn night. Except I'm wrong, it's not my brother who appears, it's my boy. Yeah, I definitely need to get my shit together. Don't need him thinking I'm cracking up or nothing.

'Hey, Dad.' Tony sits beside me, holds out a plate. 'Brought you this, 'fore Uncle Eddie eats it all and blames it on me.' His words are lighthearted, but his expression gives him away.

'Cheers, buddy.' I take it, set the plate down to the other side of me, between my empty coffee cup and the overflowing ashtray.

Tony frowns. 'Thought you said you were hungry.'

I shrug. 'Not so much. You want it?'

'Nah.' Tony shifts a little, turns towards me. 'So that cop. He was talking about Mom, right?'

'Yeah.' I keep staring straight ahead, not sure I can look him in the eye right now.

'You gonna help him?'

'No, don't think I will.'

'Even if it's the right thing to do?'

'Right thing for who?'

Tony's on his feet again, moving to stand in front of me so I can't miss how he's glowering at me, his face twisted with anger. 'So everything you said the other day, you lecturing me how I need to do the right thing? Was all garbage?'

'That's different, Tony—'

'How?' he demands. 'Why is it one rule for you and a different one for me?'

'Me helping him, won't bring Mom back. And I have to think about you, your sister, do what's right for you. All me getting involved'll do is drag up shit that's best left in the past, where it belongs. I can't risk it.' I get up, point towards the house and bark out an order. 'Now get back inside. I ain't talking about this no more.'

'Tony strides past me then wheels back around, his face twisting into a sneer. ' You know what, Dad. You are so full of shit. You reckon you loved Mom.'

'The hell you saying?' I take a stride towards him, stop short of cuffing him upside the head for what he's suggesting. How can he question _that_, of all things? 'You shut your damn mouth, Tony. Of course I loved—'

'Yeah? You sure about that?' Tony's words tear into my heart, more painful than if he'd knifed me with a jagged, rusty blade— worse than getting my face bust up with that bottle. ''Cause if you really did, how the hell can you let her murderer get away with it?'

* * *

_A/N: Thanks for reading :)_


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